Keepers
by MashiarasDream
Summary: A chance meeting in a snowstorm. A song that creates a bond. A story of love and fate. Fantasy AU, very loosely based on the original Undertaker/Kane storyline from the 90s.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: A shadow in the storm**

I crouch low when I notice the shadow entering the space under the bridge.

I had been sure to be alone. It is the only reason I allowed myself the small fire. I stifle the curse that wants to leave my lips. Instead, I hold out my hands.

I can't see more of him than his outline against the howling pitch black of the night, but for him my hands will stand out clearly in the light of the flames. Bare hands, apart from the gloves. The crisscross pattern of tears and mends in the fabric will also show him that it makes no sense to rob me. I have nothing of value.

Hopefully, the night is too cold for him to have other ideas what to do to a woman. Not that I would let him. Bare hands maybe, but I'm not defenseless if necessity demands.

He has stopped outside the circle of light. A tall man. Broad shoulders, too.

I slump, try to make myself smaller still. Better to be underestimated than to provoke an attack.

"I have nothing. Nothing but this fire. But I will share that." The words turn into mist even in the relative warmth next to the flames.

Of course he won't have to share. Judging by his size, he can throw me back out into the storm without even a strain to his muscles. Not my best option. I was lucky enough to find this space and get my fire going.

"Look, I don't want to freeze to death in the storm. Neither do you, I assume. So let's share peacefully."

Catching a glimpse of a leather coat, a gleam of polished steel at his side, a sudden flicker of red hair, I decide that he is a fighter. Somewhat better off than me, but not by much.

His stillness is beginning to unnerve me. Why is he not coming to the fire?

Then I see the slight tremble. I can't be sure, the gusts of wind make the fire flicker too wildly. But I'm sure enough.

"You're hurt."

For a moment I'm insecure while I try to judge the danger. Animals attack when they're hurt. So do humans.

Then my better side wins out.

"I can help. But you got to come over to the light."

I reach for my bag but avoid any fast movements. I open the bag and take my medical kit out so that he can see I'm not trying to trick him. The kit is small, but it can save a life.

He deliberates for another moment before making his decision.

When he steps into the light, I can see immediately that he is in no position to be moving through a storm. His face is too grey and his motions are too slow.

At least that alleviates my fears somewhat. I'm pretty sure he can't muster the strength for a full-blown attack. Still, better safe than sorry.

"I'm unarmed. What do you think about getting rid of that sword before I come closer to take a look?"

His face is a mask. All I can read is that he's in pain but has learned not to let it show. Finally, he reaches for his sword belt and the heavy steel clatters to the ground.

"Thank you."

I get up slowly, keeping my eyes on his as I walk over to him. I want to sense any movement before he ever makes it.

His eyes are green, best as I can tell in the flickering lights. He watches me without moving a muscle but I'm not fooled. Even without the sword, he can crush me like a fly.

When I'm in reach, I stop. "I'm going to take a look, ok?"

I wait for him to answer or even just nod permission, but he doesn't. He just stands there.

"Try not to kill me", I mutter to get over the stretching silence.

Still, I'm hesitant to touch him. Hesitant in a way that I'm not used to. This is my craft after all.

But I get over myself.

His coat is heavy and wet. My gloves come away red.

There is a large gash in his shirt. I carefully lift it. The torn flesh makes me wince. It's a deep gash. He has tried to still the flow of the blood but fighting his way through the storm has opened the wound again.

"Shouldn't let anyone get under your cover like this. It's a nasty wound."

I look up at him and see that his eyes are following me. He's sizing me up.

I swallow. "But the sword was sharp and the edges aren't frazzled, so that is good."

I feel nervous under his gaze. It makes my voice sharper than intended: "You really want to get that cleaned and stitched. If you want to live through the night, that is."

"I can't pay."

It's a shock when his bass suddenly vibrates through my body. I had almost taken him for a mute.

"We can work something out in the morning."

Not that I want to take advantage of a dying man but payment will fill my stomach. So I'm not going to pass up the opportunity if I don't have to.

I could let him die of course and just take what's in his pack. I look at the pack on his back judgingly.

He notices it, so I quickly cover it up: "Got a blanket in there somewhere? You'll need to lie down."

When he shakes his head, I sigh. "Come over to my side then. Try not to bleed on my blanket too much."

I help him out of his coat and his shirt. Immediately, he starts to shiver. It's cozy in our little shelter in comparison to the howling winds outside, which drive the snow in horizontal sheets, but cozy in comparison is not the same as warm.

So I put the coat back around his shoulders before I collect my medical kit and kneel down next to him.

There is a hunting knife in his belt and I can see the hilts of two throwing knives in his boots.

"You know this is going to hurt, right? You're not going use those knives on me?"

"You're safe."

It costs him effort to speak. I better not delay. "Alright."

I set my tools out methodically before I start by pouring a cleaning liquid into the wound. There is a sharp intake of breath and I can feel his pain soaring. Then my body and my training and my gift take over.

The first notes of the song come slowly, softly, lost to the howling winds. But with every movement the song gets stronger, steadier. Soon, I'm warm enough to take off my gloves. It's easier when I can touch him directly. Less painful for him, too. I can feel the rhythm of his heart slow down, follow my lead, beat with the song. I sing to it and to his mind, to make him sleep, make him forget about the pain. I weave the old song into the strands of cat gut and bind it from there into the flesh and the bones, into the blood vessels and the skin. I weave the song tight, to strengthen the fabric of his mortal being. To knit together what was broken.

When I'm finished, I'm exhausted. The fire has almost burned down without me even noticing.

I put his coat and his shirt over his sleeping form before I drag myself up to get more fire wood. Once the fire is back to strength, it takes all my willpower to make myself walk away from its warmth to collect some snow to melt.

The second I leave the enclosed confines of the bridge, the wind rips at my tattered coat and freezes me to the bone. I hurry best as I can.

I put the pot on the fire and search for the herbs. There isn't much left of my stores. The winter has been too long and too bitter. And to my shame, I haven't kept everything for my patients, as I should have.

My stomach rumbles loudly as it reminds me of why exactly I couldn't resist making some tea for myself. I tell my stomach to shut up and throw the last of the leaves into the water.

I watch him as I wait for the tea to be ready. It might be a trick of the light but to me his face looks less grey already.

Again, my belly rumbles to remind me that healing needs sustenance. I cast a longing gaze at his pack. Maybe, just maybe, he's got some food. He's unconscious right now and he won't come to until I sing him awake.

I have resorted to stealing before.

And the emptiness in my stomach is a constant pain.

And I saved his life.

But I can't get myself to do it. I haven't sunken that low before, stealing from an unconscious patient. I won't sink that low now.

Instead, I fill my cup from the second, smaller bowl. It is just water but at least it is hot.

I let it fill my stomach until the emptiness is bearable again.

If he has food, maybe he's willing to share. I saved his life after all.

When the tea is done, I carefully fill it into the cup. Every drop spilled is a drop I can't recover.

Then I let it cool for a moment.

I feel almost bad for waking him, he looks exhausted even now. It'll be much worse when he comes to. But there is no helping it, he needs to drink.

So I start the song. I sing it quietly, softly, calmly. I do not want to startle him.

But I startle him nonetheless. One single movement and the hunting knife is in his hand.

I sit frozen, the note on my tongue dying.

But then consciousness comes to him and he lets the knife sink.

I let out the breath I was holding and take the song up where it had stopped.

Still very careful, I pick up the cup.

The song wraps its essence around the steam, drops deep into the heat of the liquid. I can feel it take shape and form and expand and fill the leaves with a power they don't usually have.

I don't break the song but I look up at him, asking his permission with my eyes while the song changes, takes what it found in the leaves and transforms it so it can melt with his body when he drinks.

I can see the hesitation in his eyes and I drag out the notes, make the song go in circles and repeats for the moment. I need his agreement or the song won't find a hold in his body and my efforts will have been for naught.

I can feel the energy draining out of me fast. I can't keep this up for long. I plead with him, silently, while keeping the tune as steady as I can. Finally he nods, almost imperceptibly, but the song notices and takes a leap, latches on to his essence.

I can feel him shudder as I set the cup to his lips. He drinks, slowly, with effort, but he drinks. The song spreads and I can feel how it courses through his body, belly first, but then spreading to his limbs until it reaches the fingertips and toes, curls around, goes back up, settles into his chest, finds the wound and burns away whatever evil there was left in it.

I can hardly get the last few notes out before I keel over.

* * *

_Author's Note: Usual disclaimers apply. Undertaker and Kane are not my characters. Everything and everyone else is all mine. Including all the magic. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Deadman**

When I wake up it is light. Daylight. I need a moment to regain my memories.

But they come flooding back when I see him. His back is turned towards me. He's bent over the fire. I take a deep breath and know what woke me up.

"Eggs." The word alone is almost enough to make me swoon.

"Eggs", he confirms without turning.

I look at his broad back. Take in the overpowering smell of warm food.

I can't. I can't beg him for a scrap of his food. But my mouth waters and I can't contain the small whimper.

"Haven't had eggs in a while, have you?" His voice is gruff but not unfriendly.

I shake my head, unsure that my voice will hold.

"It ain't much I'm afraid." He takes the pan off the fire.

I close my eyes and just suck in the smell. Can the smell of eggs fill your stomach if you just breathe it in deep enough?

"Got a bowl?"

My eyes spring open again. But he holds out the pan to me, so I haven't misheard. I nod quickly and search through my stuff until I find my bowl. I can't stop my fingers from shaking as I hold it out to him.

He looks from my fingers to me for a moment, then heaps about two thirds of the portion onto my plate. "You haven't had anything in a while."

"You don't have to do this…" But my actions belie my words because I have already snatched the bowl from under his fingers and put it safely in my lap before he changes his mind.

He chuckles, a noise so unexpected that it takes a moment until I fit it in with what I have learned of him so far. In the healing, it seemed that all he was was pain. I didn't concentrate on anything apart from the task at hand, but it is hard to miss a pain that strong.

"So you're a healer", he echoes my thoughts as I shovel the first bite into my mouth.

The unexpected delicacy hits my senses hard and I need a while before I recover enough to answer. "And you are a fighter. Not a very good one, judging by your wound."

His voice is a notch colder when he answers: "There must be a reason a healer with your talent is as famished as you are."

He's right, of course, and he knows it without me agreeing. "Worked out well enough for you, to have me here."

I can see how much better he is, how much easier he moves. I have lost none of my abilities, famished or not.

"That, it did." He is placated, I can tell, and he stuffs the next bite of his eggs into his mouth. He still looks thoughtful, though. "Should cost me a fortune, too. What you did for me. Unfortunately, I meant what I said. I have no money to offer right now."

I nod while the next bite hits my stomach. In truth, that he shared his breakfast is enough payment for me today. But I know that in civilized parts, a healing like I worked it on him would cost him the equivalent of a good horse at least. "You could give me your name. In case you ever get famous and rich, I could come find you."

His face closes up again, a heavy cloud now darkening it. "My name? You can call me Deadman. I listen to it. And you might just find me with it."

Suddenly I know. I do not know what happened to him, not personally, not the details. But I know where he belongs and why he is here, alone, hurt, in the depth of winter. I remember his pain and feel pity for him, even though the fear stirs back up, too: "Your name can't be spoken."

He stares at me surprised. Then he nods.

Yes, I know about the travelling folks and their customs. It's a hard fate, being taboo. It's also a fate that hits those who have done evil. There is reason to fear him, even if he tells me I'm safe. But there is no use in letting that fear show. "Alright."

My lessons about the travelers have also taught me that I can't pry. If he has any loyalty left, he will take his clan's secrets to his grave. He cannot tell me his story even if he wanted to.

"How much do you see?"

"What?"

"When you're healing, how much do you see?"

The hesitation in his eyes before he drank the tea. Yes, he fears me, too. In a different way than I fear him, but it is still fear.

I shake my head: "I was looking for your physical strength to bind the flesh. Nothing else."

His gaze stays guarded. He doesn't trust my words.

I guess that obeying the rules of his clan is all he has left. I can't help myself and give him a small, sad smile. I know that he can see the pity and I know that he won't like it. So I add: "It is good. It is good that you still feel the bond."

That elicits a bitter laugh. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

I shrug. I don't. But I know one thing: "Even someone you lost makes you less alone."

He observes me with a new curiosity.

I shake my head: "I will not tell you, so don't bother to ask."

"You have asked me my name. I was only going to ask yours."

I can feel the blush coming on. Of course. He, too, knows better than to ask people for their stories.

I think about it for a moment.

"If you are Deadman, I am Ghost," I finally answer.

It's been a while since anyone has called me by any name. But it seems fitting. It is what I am to most people. A ghost brushing by them. Relieving them of a nickel or an apple, or maybe just brushing their hand really quick to feel a touch of human warmth before moving on.

"But you're not…"

"No", I shake my head. "I'm not of your kind."

He observes me silently.

Uncomfortable under his gaze again, I feel an urge to explain: "There are many reasons to go without a name."

But before I can give any details, I shut my mouth. Telling him about me is not a good idea. If anything, I should have been more careful in the first place. Probably should have let him die. Having used my full powers he knows that something is wrong about me being here. And his strength is back, while mine is not.

Questioningly, I look at him, try to figure out whether there is any danger that he'll try to drag me to the authorities.

He holds my gaze. No. I think he's not the type. I let go with a sigh and nod at his sword. "So, you fight for a living?"

He nods.

"You should be more careful. That was a close call last night."

He raises an eyebrow: "Last time I checked, starvation kills, too. Especially in a winter like this."

Against my will, that makes me laugh: "Are you saying we're even because you gave me eggs?"

His mouth doesn't even curve slightly: "No. I know that you saved my life. And that you spent more energy than you had on it. I'll be damned if I can figure out why."

For the first time, I have the thought that maybe he didn't want to be saved. That maybe death would be a mercy for him. That he was looking for it, even. But if it was so, why did he let me heal him?

Finally, I just shrug: "I don't kill if I don't have to."

His eye-brows rise even higher.

I can see what he thinks. How a starved girl like me could kill someone like him, even if he's wounded. He's crazy if he thinks I'm going to tell him.

But he doesn't comment on it. Instead he looks over to the white void at the edge of our space: "Storm's not letting up."

"I've noticed."

"Want me to go?"

"Do you have more eggs?"

For the first time, his laughter sounds real. "Some bread. And dried meat and vegetables. There might even be an apple or two."

My mouth waters at the sound of that and to my embarrassment my stomach rumbles loudly.

The laughter flares up before it subsides to a low chuckle. "Too proud to ask even when you're starving, huh? But yes, I'd be willing to share."

I don't like being patronized like that, but still: "Please, stay."

I try not to make it sound too eager, but I fail miserably. I'm horrible at going hungry. I have never properly learned it.

Finally, I shake my head and change the topic: "Let me check on the wound."

I move over to where he is kneeling. Again, I feel a strange hesitation before touching him. Is it because he is taboo? But I do not belong to the travelers, I have no obligation to shun him.

I shake my head and get over myself.

The skin around the suture is red and angry but it is cool to the touch. He doesn't flinch when I let my fingers glide along the stitches.

I start humming in a low tune, not a healing song, just a variation on a nursery rhyme to help me concentrate. The flesh is knitting itself together at a much faster rate than I was expecting. I check it again even though I know my first impression is right.

"Something wrong?"

He has noticed my knitted brows.

"No."

But I don't look up at him and instead change my song to something deeper, something that will allow me to probe and search for the reason.

I'm not even deeper than the wound and my mouth already feels dry. The syllables of this song always choke me. It has nothing to do with the tune itself, only with my memories. But still, I don't use this song often.

In the second verse, I finally dare to go deeper.

He is strong. He is in good shape. Maybe his energy is more intense than I expected.

I expand the radius of my song. I don't want to disturb his privacy but I want to know.

My skills could have grown since I used them the last time. It is not unheard of, for a gift to increase over time. But usually, it happens with patience and training. Not in a spur, while starving to death.

I stumble in my tune as I find something. It is gone as fast as it came. I reverse the last few notes. There. There it is. I lock on carefully to examine it.

A tingling starts in my fingertips and spreads through my body. It radiates outward from the point of resonance that I found. I can feel my control slip and frantically try to let go before the feeling overwhelms me, but I find myself frozen in place. I can feel my eyes go wide and my heart starting to race but my mouth cannot stop forming the words of the song.

"Enough." He shoves me back harshly.

I land hard on the cold ground, too stunned to even think about catching my fall.

"What the hell was that?"

"You felt it, too?" My voice shakes as I try to work saliva back into my mouth.

He narrows his eyes and glares at me. Suddenly, he is looming over me.

Instinctively, I crawl a few steps backwards.

This is not supposed to happen. He's not supposed to feel me. He's not supposed to resonate, either. No one is supposed to resonate like this.

"You better explain what you did to me." His voice is a growl.

"I can't." My tone approaches frantic very quickly. "I can't. I don't know what happened. It is nothing that I did."

I hold my hands out in front of me again, like I did yesterday night. I'm not armed, I'm harmless.

But this time, he doesn't believe me. He growls again as he gets up.

I'm ready to run by the time I notice that he is not going for his sword.

But I can feel the tension in his body, feel that he is barely containing his rage at my intrusion when he knows that I know better.

So I crouch, too scared to move but my fingers ready to go for my knife and my legs ready to run.

He looks at me and a wave of confusion hits me as my own fear gets mirrored back to me within a capsule of anger.

He backs away from me, slowly, not taking his eyes off of me.

It's fear, both mine and his, that is now dominant in the resonance. He holds up his hands in confusion and disappears into the snow storm.

I stare into the white, still unable to move.

But I can tell where he is even though all I see is snow. I know how far he walked. And that he's not going to be able to resist coming back. I know it as surely as I know where my thumbs are on my hands.

I shudder. It might be a lingering residue of the healing, of the song that I never use. I have never used it to search in someone who was still alive.

Even just thinking about it, the echo of the resonance fills my head. The white wall begins to swim before my eyes. I steady myself on my knees, but the dizziness does not go away.

I will myself to move.

Some water to drink will help.

I get up. My legs are slow to obey. But I manage to fight the cacophony in my head long enough to put the pot back on the fire.

The flames dance in front of my eyes. I shake my head to dispel the shapes that start to form and to dissolve in them in the rhythm of the resonance. It doesn't help. They are vague at first, but they grow brighter and more vivid. Figures start to appear.

I don't know what it is that keeps my gaze drawn, because the figures turn into faces and the faces are right out of my nightmares. Only those nightmares have been real.

There is a trickle of cold on my face where the tears start flowing. The scream starts building up inside me, growing and growing until I burst at the seams.

At the last moment I manage to close my eyes. But then arms circle me from behind and the scream breaks free after all.

I hear it from afar, as I watch myself struggling in vain against the strong arms that hold me tight. I'm kicking and scratching and making a mess of things. Deadman doesn't let go.

Then the scream subsides and the quiet is balm for my soul. The resonance retreats to a steady flow, something I can manage. The kicking and struggling stops.

I feel the warmth of his body where my forehead touches the skin of his throat. He smells rich and male.

I jerk away.

"Thank you", I mutter but I don't manage to look him in the eyes.

He fills some of the hot water into his cup.

"Here", he holds it out to me.

I nod and let the heat of the cup find its way into my fingers.

"I could hear you scream."

I nod. Everyone for the next mile probably heard it, storm or no storm.

"Before you screamed. I heard it inside my head."

Now I do look up.

He is out of his depth but determined to find out: "Does this happen often? Is it part of what you do?"

I shake my head.

"Then what is it?"

His voice is harsher than the feelings I get from him. He's not used to people. Not used to being close to them or knowing their feelings. He doesn't know how to deal with this.

I shake my head in confusion. This connection is doing nothing for me in terms of figuring out how to handle him without getting myself into more trouble.

But I have to figure it out. We'll leave this place as soon as we can and make sure we go two very different directions. But until then… I look up but the howling wall of white still has the same impenetrable look to it.

"A few hours. At most. Then you'd freeze. "

He has followed my line of sight.

I nod. Yes, I judge the same. We are stuck.

"I could go", he offers anyway.

"And kill us both."

I shrug as he looks at me questioningly. "I doubt I'll be able to sit here and let you die. Hurts too much."

When he doesn't answer, I add: "I don't know how you live with it. With the pain."

"So you do see more than the physical side."

"When I'm looking, yes. But I wasn't. And I'm not singing now. But I can still feel your pain." It is not as overpowering as it was. But the vibration of the resonance is in the air even without the song.

I close my eyes and follow its lead.

When I open my eyes again, my fingers rest on his shirt right above his heart. "Here."

He nods slowly. "I can feel it."

I follow the lead back until my fingers touch the spot right above my heart. Then I sigh and let my hands fall back into my lap. "This is outside my control. It is outside of my song."

He looks at me like I'm crazy: "But it was you who brought it on. You must be able to reverse it."

The flare of outrage and despair comes through loud and clear.

"Deadman," I hesitate. "I don't think I can."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Two paths changed**

After that, a brooding silence engulfs us for the next few hours.

I guess we both hope that if we just wait it out, it will go away.

But if anything, the link gets clearer as the hours pass.

Where at first I just got a broad sense of his rage and pain and confusion, I can now pinpoint it.

There is a desperation caused by his inability to stop me invading his mind. He fears that I will find his secrets. That I will break whatever connection he still has to his past. He is sure that he will lose himself if that happens. Keeping his promise is what keeps him going.

The pain slowly but steadily grows with the despair as the hours pass. He bites down on it like he'd bite on a piece of leather when extracting an arrow from a wound. Only, he doesn't know how to extract me. Or the warmth that comes with our connection, whether we like it or not. He tries to ignore it, but he savors every second of it. It stirs memories that he thought long forgotten.

I swallow hard. It stirs memories in me, too. I don't know whether he can feel my emotions as clearly as I feel his. But if he does, he knows that I am so sad that I can hardly keep back the tears. Whatever he did, no one deserves to be this lonely.

"You hurt for me, but I'm not the only one who is lonely." He has turned halfway around to me.

So he does feel it as clearly as I do. "I have chosen this path."

"Liar." He says it with a tired but disarming smile.

This costs him as much energy as it does me. Maybe more. At least I have experience dealing with someone else's pain rushing through my veins. He doesn't.

"Alright. I liked the other choices less. So this is how it turned out. How I turned out."

"Who was it?"

"What?"

"The one who made your song strangle you."

I'm taken aback. This is too accurate for comfort. "My brother", I say reluctantly.

"I'm sorry."

I shake my head. "There is no need."

"Because of your guilt?"

This time I don't answer.

"Don't worry. I only know that you feel guilty. Not about what."

"Same here." My smile turns out tired, too. "You're not breaking any rules."

There is a sudden surge of pain. "Yes, I am."

"How? You're not telling me anything."

"But I can feel that my fate pains you. That you fear me but that you have also begun to like me. It feels good to me. I should have the strength to walk away. Because mine is a life of coldness and solitude. Even companionship is nothing I should expect or look for."

"You didn't. Expect it or look for it."

"Yet here we are."

"Yet here we are." I sigh. "Why did you let me heal you then?"

He sighs. "Because ending my life out of my own free will is something I can't even repent for. You being here, I had no choice but to accept."

Suddenly I can't take the forced closeness anymore and need to get up: "I'll go see whether I can find some more wood for the fire. Doesn't seem like the storm is letting up."

"Let me do that. I'm stronger."

But I shake my head. I need to get out of this space for a while.

My coat slung tightly around me, I work my way forward step by step. I try to keep the wall of the bridge in my reach as long as I can. Getting lost in a snow storm needs no more than a few steps.

Then I go out towards where I remember the trees. I count my steps and try to walk in a straight line. It would be easier without the wind pushing me around.

When I find the tree-line, I start digging through the snow and collect a bundle of sticks.

When I'm done, I turn around to where I came from. But then I stop.

The distance has done nothing to cut the connection. It is like a piece of yarn is stretching from him to me. It tells me to go to my left, where my mind tells me to retrace my steps to the right.

I clutch the bundle in my freezing fingers. What the hell. I turn to the left.

I let the wood fall in a clutter. It is close enough to the fire to dry but not close enough to catch flames.

"I could have shot an arrow at you from the forest. And probably hit you, too. Even though I'm a horrible shot."

"But you wouldn't shoot me. And that's not a guess."

"True."

For a moment we stare at each other, on the brink of a fight. But we're both too miserable and too exhausted to actually go through with it.

He relents first.

"Here", he throws me a carrot. Make yourself useful and cut some vegetables for the soup."

"Where do you get all that?"

"I get paid for my services. At least usually. Last deal didn't work out so well."

I get my knife and start cutting. He hands me a few more vegetables and then cuts a piece of dried meat into the soup.

"Were you ever tempted?"

"To do what?"

"To end your life." That hasn't let go of me. Most Gods forbid ending your life. It always seemed cruel to me, but I guess it's not good for the magnitude of the flock.

"Every day."

There is no more emotion in the statement than when he's talking about soup.

I guess it makes sense in his case, too. If they wanted him dead, they could have killed him. They wanted him to suffer. "Seems cruel to me. Logical, but cruel."

He just shrugs.

But I can't see it with the same apathy. My father was right in this about me, if not in much else. My heart is weak. I see pain and I want to heal it.

Only in this case I can't. I avert my eyes but I can't avert my emotions as easily.

His voice is almost warm: "Then think about it logically, Ghost. Rationally. Not with the things this- whatever it is - are telling you. This is the worst punishment my people know. It is reserved for those who deserve it. I'm not worthy of your compassion."

"And you already know that that doesn't change a thing." I throw the last of the vegetables in with the rest. "It's who I am, Deadman. Until the storm is over, you'll have to deal."

He looks at me as if puzzling something out: "You're not scared anymore."

"Of you? No. You wouldn't shoot an arrow at me, same way I wouldn't shoot at you."

"Yet you know that I am dangerous."

I laugh. "I don't doubt it." Then, more serious: "I'm dangerous to you, too. In more ways than you can know."

"Can your song kill?"

I hesitate for only a second. Then I nod: "Yes. But there has to be an anchor. I can tell the flesh to knit. Or the opposite. It hurts me something awful, though."

"So you have done it before?"

I bite my lip. Only in dire need. And I always try not to kill. "Yes."

He doesn't need any more details then this. He nods. He hasn't expected anything else. Then he pries the knife out of my hands: "Is that how you came by this knife?"

"Give it back." I hold out my hand, hackles immediately raised.

But he doesn't listen and instead turns the knife around in his hands, examining the sigils. "The royal seal. I can hardly believe you came close enough to a member of the royal family to steal this."

Quietly seething, I ask him: "How do you know it wasn't payment for my services? You know my healing powers are outstanding. There was no need to pry the knife from a dead man's hand."

"Dead man's hand indeed", his thumb strokes the in-lays in the hilt: "Ravenwings. Our dead crown-prince's sigil."

"Hand it back." I emphasize every word.

He looks at me curiously, obviously feeling the seething rage at his taking the knife, but not understanding it at all.

"Here you go." Hilt first, he offers the knife back to me.

I quickly sheath it. Only after that do I calm down. I shake my head: "You don't have to believe me but I came by this knife honestly. And even though I use it to cut vegetables, it has value to me. I will not let anyone take it from me."

"And you should have been able to tell that I wasn't going to."

I feel towards the resonance and I know that he tells the truth. He wants me no harm. At least not right now.

He chuckles: "Seems like you are more reclusive than me. Didn't think that was possible."

This time it's me who can't share in the joke: "I have my reasons."

"Look", he sighs. "I'm a dead man. Whatever you did, it can't be bad enough for me to freak out. If we can find a minimum of trust, maybe we could be useful to each other."

"Useful?" I need a moment to get his meaning: "You're proposing that we travel together."

"Is that insolent?"

I slowly shake my head: "No, not insolent, no. But dangerous."

He shrugs: "Truth to be told, I don't know yet whether I like it much, either. But the way I see it, we're going to confuse each other with this – thing - anyway. If we stay together, at least I can earn us some food, you can heal me when it's needed. Win for both of us."

"How do you know I'm not a wanted criminal?"

"Are you?"

"I'm –", but I don't find any words.

"You're on the run. Got that much. But I don't think you're a dangerous criminal. Have met a few of those. They try the opposite of saving your life usually."

He's right, of course, I'm a lot of things but a dangerous criminal is not one of them.

I haven't actually taken the possibility he's proposing into consideration. If I do, I should tell him the truth. I should tell him the danger he's going to be in. But telling him is dangerous to me. "Let me think about this, alright?"

He nods and stirs the soup.

The next few hours pass slowly. The storm loses some of its raw power, but it's still snowing heavily.

When the soup is finished, we eat but no conversation comes to mind.

Getting ready for the night consists of braving the snow once more, then getting my blanket.

He's sitting in front of the fire, not moving. There is no need to check on his wound again. I can feel from here that the cat-gut is dissolving into the freshly knit flesh and he will keep a much smaller scar than he should as a reminder of this episode.

When the fire burns low and he's still not moving, I finally ask him: "Wanna share? Since you lost your blanket."

He looks at me strangely. "There's no need."

I sigh: "Apart from that you're already freezing. So you'll just wake me up with your shivering."

"It isn't a good idea."

"No, it isn't. But really, it isn't a good idea to camp outside in a snow storm. Or to get yourself taboo'd. Or to -", I break off. "I'm willing to share, anyway."

He thinks about it for a moment, then he nods.

My blanket is big enough for me to wrap myself into it twice. Both of us, more difficult. He straightens away from me as much as he can but every little movement, every involuntary twitch, and a leg brushes a leg or an arm brushes the other's side. It makes us both uncomfortable. But still.

I lie awake listening to his breathing. It takes an eternity until he finally succumbs to sleep and his breathing turns even and deep. Only then do I allow myself the luxury of letting my guard down.

I cry for a long time.

It is easy for me, figuring people out. I can look inside them, at least when I sing, but with most of them they have never learned to keep their emotions out of their expression.

It has been one of my first lessons, when I was so young that I can hardly remember it. It was painfully re-enforced, too, when I didn't manage to stop the tears from falling or the silly giggle from spilling over. It has only been through the lessons in healing that I found a modicum of comfort in expressing what I feel.

For him, it is a lesson learned much later. But it has become second nature so much that I'm not even sure he can figure out the feelings he has. Unless it is pain. I feel into the connection, very carefully, and even while he's asleep, I get a steady supply of pain from him. Diluted, not as intense, but I have to feel past it, have to feel deeper, to get anything else.

Underneath, there is – resolve. It feels like a rock. No matter how many waves crash against it, it will not break. It also gives him stability and calmness. I cannot tell whether he has accepted his fate as utterly as he wants to make me and himself believe, but he is resolved to accept it. Maybe the difference isn't all that big.

It's part of the healing to learn how to insulate your own feelings so you don't get confused when looking for someone's pain and strength. It should be near impossible for him to untangle our emotions. But he had no obvious troubles with it.

I go looking for the part of him that concerns itself with me. It's a small part. Hard as a nut. But a nut is nutritious. It has healing powers, too.

Suddenly I become aware that his breathing has changed. Then I notice the changes in the connection. A short burst of alarm, followed by a tightening of all muscles.

I keep my breathing regular. There is no cause for alarm.

It is an old trick, portraying the emotions you want your patients to feel and thus mirroring them back into them.

The alarm disappears. For a long moment, he stays where he is, his arm brushing my side and his face close enough that I can feel his breath.

A different feeling shows up in the bond. It's bright and shiny and good. Immediately he draws away from it and from me.

I sigh. He has more willpower than me. I was enjoying his warmth and touch. "Deadman?"

"Hmm?"

"Alright. I'm coming with you."


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: Don't have the energy to make the paragraphs look pretty. Hope y'all find your way around anyway. Please don't hesitate to leave a review. I know I'm straying a bit from usual Fanfiction, but hey, I felt like fantasy and magic. _

* * *

**Chapter 4: Travelers**

Thus, we come to travel together.

It isn't easy. Not at first. Our new bond intrudes into places we don't want the other to look, into places we don't even want to know about. We keep to ourselves for days, sullen and helpless, before making a new effort at being civil with each other.

But finally, we figure it out. What we have to do. We start treating the bond like I would a new song and he a new weapon. We follow the ebbs and flows, learn how to swing and defend. We try it out. We try to hide our feelings. We try sending each other signals. We find out what works and what doesn't. We ask and we answer. It doesn't give us the reason for why the bond exists, but as the days pass, we grow familiar with it and with each other.

All the while, we travel.

Deadman likes taking temporary positions for minor royalty. Never staying too long, never getting attached, but firmly staying in the core part of the realm. I try to convince him to travel someplace else, further out, but he argues that the noblemen fill our bellies with their food, and that a few warm nights in soldiers' quarters are nothing to shun in a winter like this, and that is true.

I keep my knife hidden and my face as well, to the best of my abilities. It helps that they take me for his lover, even though I am not. Whenever we stay longer than a few days, they put me to work in the kitchens and I do what I'm told without complaints.

I never heal anyone but him while we're on the grounds of nobility. It would bring us money, yes, but the stakes are too high. Even a dampened down version of my skills is nothing I would risk anyone to know about.

He has not asked me why but he has admitted that he would not be able to defend me should a lord or under-lord decide to throw me in a tower and lock me up, to be a healer solely for his family and soldiers. It is not quite my own fear, but I nod and agree and the issue is settled.

But fortunately, there aren't any incidents, though twice I ask him to move on early, because rumors of an envoy from the capitol have started spreading in the kitchens.

Slowly, the cold winter storms give way to spring rains and without our conscious noticing we have finally strayed from the main settlements and have ended up in the fringe territories. We're far to the South, in the grass- and woodlands that the travelling folks use as their winter quarters before traveling back up North to trade and peddle or set up carnivals or get odd jobs as hired hands on the farms.

With each passing day, Deadman grows quieter and he is not usually a fountain of laughter. But for me, the colorful wagons and wild children are a respite after the stiff discipline of the kitchens.

Or they have been until now.

Deadman follows a wheezing and coughing sound deeper into the forest. A half-starved, barely conscious child turns out to be the source, the firewood he was sent to collect spilled, his legs too weak to carry him on.

I do for the little boy what I can here in the rain. But drenched and freezing myself, my teeth start to chatter and my song breaks. This is of no use: "We have to get him back into the dry if I want to help him. Back to his family."

For a moment, I think Deadman will refuse. He has, so far.

When I play with the children of the clans, he stays out of sight. When I heal someone and get food in return, I bring it back to the forests and wait for him to come back with a rabbit or whatever else he could hunt on his own.

The bond has proven invaluable for this travel arrangement. We do not lose each other, no matter how far apart we stray.

But I can't carry the unconscious child and he knows it. So finally he nods.

He lifts the child in his arms and we follow the muddy tracks back to the corral.

They come running as soon as they see us, high-pitched cries from the women and low shouts from the men. Seeing the lifeless child in the arms of the armored fighter, they grab every cudgel and club they can find.

"I can help!" I shout at them. "Please, just let me help!"

Deadman lays the child down in a dry spot under the roof of one of the wagons. He is swift and is on the retreat by the time the men reach us.

"The child isn't dead, just let me help!"

Deadman his holding his hands in front of him, far away from his sword, the same way I did when I met him.

The onslaught comes to a halt but only after they have circled us.

A crying woman runs forward and throws herself over the child.

"I'm a healer. I can help", I repeat. I hope they understand what I'm saying. "What's the word for healer in their language?"

"Drabarni", he mutters.

"Drabarni", I repeat louder. "Drabarni. A healer. That's what I am. I can help."

Muttering starts as they hear their own language from our mouths.

Helpless, I shake my head. I need to get to the child, the politics will have to wait. I can only hope that they see it the same way.

"You going to be ok?" I ask Deadman.

"Do what you have to."

Without further consideration for the men around me, I make my way to the mother and her child. "We need to bring your son inside. Where it's dry." I point at the wagon.

A man shoulders his way through and picks up the boy. "Inside, yes."

I exhale breath of relief. The accent is heavy, but they speak the common language.

The woman and I follow the man to a bright blue wagon.

Inside, it is barely warmer, but at least it is dry.

"He needs dry clothes."

The mother sets to the task, while the man, who I take for the father, lingers in the doorway. He looks like he's ready to attack me at any second. This doesn't work.

"You need to go."

All he answers is a low growl.

"I can feel your negative energy from here. It will hinder the healing. Wait outside." I muster all the authority that I have.

"Please, husband, is women's business." His wife's voice is quiet but it doesn't waver.

He gives me another good long stare, then he snorts consent.

"Thank you", I tell her after he's left the room.

Softly, I take the child's hand and let the song begin.

He is small and he is too thin. His energy reserves are mostly drained. And the quick stabilizing I did in the forest has depleted them further. It makes the fever and the cold much more dangerous than they would be.

I work slowly and deliberately, giving him as much of my own energy as I can. But I need enough of his energy to balance my gift. It is tricky work. Still, I have healed worse and all goes smoothly. Finally, I sing him awake.

"Daj…" His voice is tiny and exhausted but he recognizes his mother.

She cries out and let's herself fall forward to hug him tight.

I sit back on my heels, exhausted but satisfied. These are the better moments of my craft, when I can give someone back to their loved ones and know that they're going to be ok.

Slowly, I get up.

"Wait!" The mother turns around.

I already see it in the pleading of her eyes before she says it.

"There is another child. A girl. Sick. Daughter of daughter of Puri Daj. Very sick."

She is right, too. The girl is very sick.

My exhaustion lies like a heavy blanket around my shoulders as I hold the hand of the child. Her mother has fled the room. She has lost three children this winter. She can tell that this girl is following the others. She cannot bear to hear it from me.

"You're trespassing where you shouldn't. You shouldn't attempt to heal him."

Her voice scratches like fingernails down my back. I've heard her come in, but only now do I acknowledge her presence. "Grandmother? You speak in riddles."

"The mulengi. The shunned one. It is not your place to heal his wounds."

The water in the child's lungs has risen to the point where I do not need my song to hear the bubbling of the fluid with every breath. She struggles hard to force some air into her lungs. It is a miracle that her tiny body finds the will at all.

"I understand what you say, Grandmother. But he is a good enough man. I was starved worse than your children when I met him. He saved me."

I wish there was something I could do to save this child. But she is too far gone. All I can do is spare her some pain.

"Saved you, huh? Wonder how his family thought about that when they burned in the fire."

For a heartbeat, my eyes flicker from the child to the crone. She speaks with a certainty she cannot have. He would not tell her. And he would have run if he knew anyone. But the bond tells me that he is still close.

I shake my head. The child's hand is clammy. She doesn't even have the energy to shiver anymore and lies deadly still.

"If you know that much, then you know that it makes no difference." I look up and into her eyes. "This one is on the way to the beyond. I can ease her passing but she is beyond my power to heal."

"Nonsense!" The crone rams her walking cane into the ground with a loud clang as she comes over. "You have the gift."

I nod. "I have the gift. But she does not have the energy left. However much I give her of my own energy, it will take her own power to knit it into her being. It will drain the rest of her resources. It will only make her die faster."

"Nonsense." The crone gives me a disapproving smack with her cane. "Do they teach you nothing these days? I am of her blood. My energy will serve just fine."

Suddenly gentle, she rests her walking cane against the bed and lays both her hands on the child, one on her chest and one on her forehead. "Go ahead."

Tentatively, I hum a few notes, while putting my own hands on top of hers.

She is right. The energy melds from her to the child.

"I'll need a lot."

"Do I look fragile to you?" She is bristling at the presumption.

So I just shake my head and take her word for it.

It is dark outside by the time we're finished. Neither of us is steady on her legs. But the girl's breathing is now soft and the rasp has disappeared. Her mother comes in when the crone calls for her. She falls down crying when she touches her daughter's forehead and finds it cool but not cold, her cheeks painted with the slightest bit of rose.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. Come, please. We do not have much, but we share what we have with you", she invites me.

I want to decline but I find myself too drained to even answer.

It is still raining and I'm being half-dragged through the mud as my own legs stumble to find a hold on the way to the big tent they use as a hall.

We're almost there when I see Deadman. He has found himself a spot under a tree at the edge of the corral, not welcome and making no effort to change it.

He's usually happy enough to let me help them for a day or two, even without payment. Making amends of sorts, I guess. But now he's drenched and miserable looking.

I sink my feet into the ground and we come to a sliding stop.

The crone, being led a little more carefully than me, comes to a more graceful halt when she follows my gaze. She mutters what I can only assume are curse-words.

"Grandmother, I…" I turn towards her to tell her that I will have to decline her offer. That I'm glad that I could help but that for reasons beyond my power to explain my allegiance lies with the one that is dead to her.

"Nonsense", she interrupts me before I can even get the first sentence out.

Then she stomps over to where he is sitting. The others follow for the first few steps, but then, one by one, they fall back, the whole company now shrouded in uncomfortable silence.

He looks ready to run when he sees that she's coming towards him.

I cannot contain the small bubble of laughter and it finds its way through the bond. It looks ridiculous, the tiny old woman on the attack and the big warrior ready to flee.

His irritation at my laughter surges right back to me, but it costs him the moment he would have had to get away. Now the crone is already staring him down, barely two feet away from him.

He keeps his head lowered, his eyes staring somewhere to the right of her shoes, best as I can judge.

"Hrmpf." After examining him for a long minute, she snorts. "You do not exist. Since you do not exist, all I am talking to is a shadow. It makes no difference to us whether a shadow is warmed by our fire. It makes no difference whether a shadow listens to our songs. Whether he sleeps under our roof."

He shakes his head, imperceptibly for me in the rain, but clear enough through our link.

Clear for her, too: "And a shadow most certainly does not argue with an elder." Her voice is indignant. She puffs out her cheeks and turns on her heel. "Come everyone, we will host our guest, the Drabarni, like it is custom."

She takes my arm in a tight grip and leads me away. Still, my eyes find his for a heartbeat. They are bright in the darkness. He follows us silently.

We are well into the meager meal and the evening, when Tamara, the sick girl's mother, pushes a bowl into my hands. It is filled with stew. The portion is bigger than the one she has had herself. She looks at me and nods in the direction of the fire. "I cannot bring it to him. Nor can anyone else here."

I take the stew from her. "You are kind."

She smiles, fleetingly: "My mother is a wise woman. She has seen your coming."

I raise my eyebrows at this strange comment, but she's already moved on.

"You. Healer!"

"Grandmother." I turn back around to where she thrones in her pillowed chair above the group.

"Come closer."

Bowl in hand, I walk over to her.

"You will stay here. For a while, anyway. You have much to learn."

I have just opened my mouth when she already interrupts me: "Nonsense. You are too impatient. You assume instead of asking. You need to learn how to ask and how to listen, child. I have already listened to you. You will not stay without him. And I do not ask you to."

She sighs as she gazes in his direction for a short moment. "It would be easier if it weren't for him, and it would be harder. We have to trust that it'll all turn out for the best."

"Grandm…"

"You will give him no choice. So many have died this winter, we can find a wagon and a team of horses for you. He will know what to do with them."

This time, I do not try to argue. Instead I ask: "Why?"

She gazes at me out of very sharp, very old eyes: "I can only tell what comes to pass, not why. But I know that your way will lead you back to where it began and you better be prepared for that day. You have helped us. I will help you."

Suddenly, I cannot hold her gaze and my eyes drop to the floor. This woman is as much a queen as I have ever seen and I know that she will not take no for an answer. "I will bring him this food and tell him what you said."

She nods her permission and I am released.

"Here", he jumps when I hold the bowl under his nose.

He takes it with a nod of thanks.

"Deep in thoughts?" He must have been if he hasn't noticed my approach.

I crouch down beside him.

He holds the bowl without taking a bite. "This is wrong. I shouldn't be here."

"Take it up with her if you have complaints." I nod in the direction of the crone.

The ghost of a smile passes his face. "No. Not even – before."

"Yeah, I've found that one out already." I chuckle. The warmth of the food and the fire have restored my energy. I'm better fed than I was, recuperation is easier. "She wants us to stay."

He stops in mid-movement.

"She says it's coming to pass whether we like it or not."

Suddenly his brows are drawn as he turns to look at her.

She's meeting his gaze heads-on.

He holds her eyes for a moment, before turning away, visibly shaken.

"What's wrong?" I lay a hand on his arm, a small transgression that has become normal.

"I should have known." He shakes his head. "She's a Drabarni, too. A different type than you. She's a seer."

I nod. I've figured as much when she started talking about the path that I will return to. "She can see the future, or parts of it."

"She can see." He looks spooked. "The future. The past. The hearts and minds of others. She can see patterns and energies in the world. She can SEE."

The way he emphasizes the word, I understand. "She can see your past. What you've done."

I hesitate only the slightest moment. We have plenty of secrets between us. We don't need to add to the pile. "She has told me that you killed your family."

Abruptly he turns away from me, ripping his arm out from under my fingers.

"I'm sorry." I honestly am. "She shouldn't have told me."

His voice is hollow when he answers. "She can do however she pleases. She is the chief of this clan and we are nothing. I am nothing."

My heart breaks all over for him, as it does every time his despair is this clear.

"Can you tell me what happened after I already know this much?" I probe softly.

He shakes his head.

"Alright." I have not expected anything different really. "It is as it is."

"Healer?"

I look up to find a nervous little boy in front of me. "Yes?"

"I will bring you to your wagon if you're ready."

I look back at Deadman. Taking a moment will not make a difference to his readiness so we might as well get on with it. "Thank you. Lead the way."

Though I wouldn't normally do it, I slide my hand into Deadman's. "Come on. I haven't lived in a wagon before. I'll need your help."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Bari-chey**

It turns out that living in a wagon is not that hard. It is also quite comfortable once you get past the arguments about the living arrangements. I need a good half hour to convince him that sleeping side by side in a bed is no different than sleeping side by side on the ground and that there is no reason at all for him to sleep on the floor.

In truth, I am worried that he will bolt and I want to sleep between him and the door.

When I wake up, he has managed to get past me anyway. But the bond immediately reassures me that he is close.

I find him outside. It has finally stopped raining. A pair of white and brown Tinkers has been tied to the outside of our new home. He is busy brushing the mare's fur and she thanks him by laying her head on his shoulder.

The small boy who brought us here yesterday gets up from a stone where he has been waiting. "I was sent to bring you these."

He carries a bundle of clothes that looks almost as big as he is.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Eric, Bari-chey."

"Well, thank you, Eric."

He nods and turns on his heel.

"Wait." Deadman hasn't turned to face us, but his voice still freezes the boy in place.

His long legs easily eating up the short distance, Deadman disappears inside, only to re-appear a second later. He tosses a bundle to the boy. Our food supply.

"Bring it to the woman in charge of the kitchen. It's not much, but it is what we have. What she has", he corrects with a nod in my direction.

Then he takes up the brush and turns back to the horse as if he had never spoken.

The boy looks nervously from him to me.

"Yes, please, take the food to the kitchen. What we have, we gladly share with the community." I know enough of their customs to know that Deadman did what we're supposed to do.

The boy nods and runs.

I turn to Deadman: "So I take it we're staying?"

He nods without looking at me.

"Alright." I have already come to the conclusion that we have little choice in this. And really, we have no other place to be, either.

I take the bundle of clothes inside. A wide red skirt with a variety of underskirts. A whitish blouse. A metal belt, every link carrying a different symbol. A warm scarf with a floral pattern. Everything is well worn, but less tattered than what I have, and clean. There is also a pair of pants and a shirt that look roughly big enough for Deadman. I lay them on the bed and set myself to peeling off my old clothes and putting on the new.

It has been so long since I have worn skirts that I have forgotten how they feel. The fabric falls in soft folds around my shins, simultaneously pleasing and hindering. I search around the storage boxes in the wagon until I find a brush and brush out my hair. Another thing that I haven't done in an eternity. But everyone here wears their hair open, men and women alike. Only small boys cut their hair short.

When I'm done I feel so much like my old self that it is almost irritating. But here, among the travelling folk, the risk of discovery is so slight that it doesn't matter.

There are little beads sown into the fringes of every underskirt and they jingle ever so softly when I move.

I think it is this that makes him look up when I go out. He averts his eyes as fast as he turned.

"It's still me, you know? It's just clothes."

It takes a moment but he lays the brush to the side and comes over. This time, he takes his time to look me over.

"Bari-chey." His eyes and smile have gone soft as he brushes a knuckle lightly against the metal belt.

"What does it mean?"

"It's a title of sorts. 'Revered daughter born to someone else' is the closest I can translate it. It means that they see you as much as one of their own as they can see anyone who's not of their kind." His smile is sad and warm at the same time: "You look beautiful, Ghost."

The honesty in his voice makes me shiver. Suddenly I feel an urge to hear my name, my actual name in his voice. But it can't be. So instead, I repeat a word I have heard yesterday. "Mulengi."

He nods. "Yes. It literally translates to 'dead man'."

I have guessed as much: "What is 'ghost', then?"

He shakes his head: "There is no difference between the two in their language."

"So we have the same name."

"No, Bari-chey, we do not." He emphasizes my new title. But he smiles and for a heartbeat he is touching my face.

I understand that in a way he is happy. He is happy to be here, to be part of this group, even though he is still outcast. But being this close to a group of his own people again is more than he has dared hope for.

I am still deep in thought when I go check on my patient.

I have never asked her name yesterday, but now her mother tells me: "Her name is Kara. She is very dear to us."

She has not yet woken and I dare not sing her awake. "She needs to become stronger before she can wake up. Still, try whether she will drink a little water."

The mother nods and I make my way out. Before checking on my other patient, I ask to see the Grandmother.

As I have expected, she has taken to her bed for the day.

"Puri daj", I address her with her title in her own language this time.

A small self-satisfied smile appears on her face. "Our garb fits you even better than I thought. You will make him think of all the loves he has lost and he will find them wanting."

I cannot figure out whether her intent is malevolent or not. So I go for a neutral answer. "I thank you for the clothes."

"Hrmpf."

"And I came to check on you. To give you some of that energy back that you spent yesterday." Talking about my work makes me feel incredibly more comfortable.

"Nonsense. There are many things you need to do, but that is not one of them."

"It is my gift, Puri daj."

"I am not sick, child."

"And I can help to keep it that way."

She laughs a cackling laugh. "You're stubborn. It will serve you well on your path, chey, being stubborn. And there might come a day when I bow my head to your will. But not this day."

How much of my past and future does she see?

Her eyes hold an unsettling scrutiny as she observes me: "You are scared that I will figure out all your secrets. But your secrets are unimportant to me. I see what is necessary. No more and no less. But that is not what you want to know. So yes, I see the house you were born in."

I cross my arms in front of me, an ineffectual gesture of defense. But I nod. It is a part of what I wanted to know.

"A dangerous place to grow up. Much safer here."

I gather my courage: "I know little of your people and your customs. I know enough to know that you're breaking rules to let us stay. Puri daj, what do you expect of me?"

She nods thoughtfully. "I have many things to teach you. Complex things. Specific things. But first you need to learn the foundation. You need to understand our soul. So, help. Observe. Ask. Listen. Learn. That is all I expect."

"Puri daj?" I better make this clear from the beginning: "No matter how well I learn to understand you, I will not leave him behind for you."

"Hrmpf." She is impatient with me. "You have told me before. There is no need to repeat. I am not that old nor that forgetful."

"I am sorry." Trying to argue with her is like stemming yourself against an avalanche.

"Hrmpf." But then her face softens again. "Tachiben y svatura. You tell him that."

"What does it mean?"

"Ask him."

"He will not break his oath."

She clucks disapprovingly. "And I would not make him. But you are barear-avri-chey. The first in five generations of this clan. He cannot answer you if you are gadje, outsider. You couldn't talk to him, were you one of us. But as bari-chey you can ask. And he can answer."

I have a feeling that that is not going to go over well, but I give in and nod. It is hard not to obey this woman.

"Then let me rest now. I will call you when I need you."

And with that, I am dismissed.

I check on my other patient and after that I am taken to a few other children. All of them could use a few more pounds on their ribs, but none of them is as sick as Kara and none of them will need as long to recover. After every child is seen to, their mothers invite me to what they call women's hour.

It takes longer than an hour and it is a big mess as far as I can see. Most of the women of the clan are gathered in the tent. They are spinning, sewing, knitting, cooking, washing, scrubbing, bantering and laughing.

Any man who comes near is shooed away, sometimes with the help of a wooden spoon.

"They will eat before food is ready", is the explanation one of the cooks is giving me.

I shake my head and laugh with them.

They give me back our own vegetables to cut into little pieces for the stew. I busy myself with the task, but every so often my gaze strays to the edges of the corral, where I know Deadman is keeping his own company.

Tamara sits down beside me: "You need not worry."

"I know. I still do, though. He's my friend."

She clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "Should not be your friend."

"He tells me the same."

"What is he like?" A slender young woman has come closer to ask the question.

Tamara shoots her a look but the girl doesn't back down. Instead she eyes me curiously, before her gaze drifts to the right. The bond tells me before I turn. There he is, carrying wood back to our new temporary home.

I raise my eyebrows as I notice the dreamy look in the young woman's eyes.

I consider to decline to answer but most women in our immediate surrounding are listening now and waiting what I'm going to say.

"He's – eating the food before it is ready."

It's a helpless joke but it makes them chuckle.

"Men, all the same." Tamara spits on the ground for emphasis.

I take the opportunity to change the topic: "So, do you always have a woman as a leader?"

That brings more chuckles.

"Woman should not be leader. But Puri daj has outwitted every man since she was small girl. So Puri daj is leader no matter what men say."

"But men have their own leader and their own power. Men deal with world outside. Women deal with clan business."

That makes sense to me, so I nod. "What about – mulengi?"

For a moment, they are all silent. Then Tamara takes the word: "Is decided by divano. Meeting. Of everyone."

"Everyone? So the vote has to be unanimous?"

"Takes long time sometimes. Many run. Few have willpower to stay."

That I understand. Standing trial before everyone you know, vote after vote, the shame and the pressure unbearable. "He didn't run."

She's shocked: "He told you?"

"No. No, he wouldn't. But I know him. He didn't run."

He looks up as I let a few of my feelings trickle through the bond. There's a lingering sadness that I always feel for him, but I'm also proud. Proud that he stood and didn't run. Proud that he keeps his oath. Proud that he is a good man.

He acknowledges it with a fleeting smile before going back to the task at hand.

I smile in return before turning back to the women around me. "Is there – a way of undoing it?"

"Is there a way to come back from the dead?" Tamara's voice has turned harsh. Yet she isn't looking at me but at the young woman who has asked about Deadman in the first place.

Still, I cannot hold onto myself: "Your daughter was as good as dead, Tamara. You know it as well as I do. Even my gift would not have saved her without Puri Daj's strength. She used her own essence to save her. So yes, it is possible to come back – with the help of others."

Now I have really lost her good will: "It is not the same. You do not understand us, Barear-avri-chey. You are only gadje."

I lower my head. I did not want to get into a fight. But I guess I have become somewhat protective of him. "I am a guest and I have overstepped my bounds. I am sorry."

The slender young woman answers before Tamara can: "You are Bari-chey. You are more than a guest. You have a right to your own opinions and to ask any question you want. Tamara knows it well, too."

For the first time, I take a closer look at the young woman. She can barely be older than sixteen.

She smiles: "I am Tamara's cousin. My great-grandfather was the leader of this clan before Puri daj."

"I can see the family resemblance."

She laughs: "You will find family resemblance in most of us. Some come, some go, most of the young men marry other girls from other clans. But every child is somehow related to every other."

"You haven't lived in this clan all your life." It is not a question. She speaks with the accent of the core realm, not the heavy lilt of the clan.

"No, I have not. My father is gadje. My mother went with him. I got sent back here to learn the old ways. Or to be married off. I am not sure."

"The ways of the city have corrupted you, Rana. Your soul is tarnished."

"You haven't lived in a city, Tamara. So don't tell me what the city does and doesn't do to your soul."

Now utterly irritated, Tamara gets up in a huff.

"There she runs", Rana sighs. "Moaning her fate of having to look after me, I guess."

"You do not make it easy for her."

"Ha! You don't know her as well as I do. She doesn't make it easy for me, either." She lowers her voice: "He, on the other hand, is quite easy on the eyes." She nods over at Deadman.

I follow her gaze. It is not a category I have put Deadman in, but I guess she is right. He has changed into the clan's garb, too, leather armor and sword nowhere in sight. And he has opened his tight braid to let his long hair fall open in the custom of the clan. It is a bright copper in the midday sun.

"Think he's going to talk to me? Tamara will throw a fit but that would be worth it."

"You do not care?"

"About him being Mulengi? Pah. It seems like the ghost stories my mother told me when I was still in my crib."

I do not like the girl's attitude very much. "He cares."

"You don't", she shoots back.

My eyes narrow. "You're wrong. I care. You should do the same."

I feel the prickling in my back before I'm even done with what I'm saying. I have never managed to keep it from him when I'm upset. His worry is palpable through the bond.

"I have to go." I get up abruptly.

She takes one more look at me and then she crows: "You're in love with him! You're in love with the Mulengi! That's why you don't want me to talk to him!"

By the end of the sentence, she is shouting fairly loudly and all eyes turn towards us.

It is Tamara who saves me. She drags Rana up by the arm. "You out of line, bhen. You embarrassing yourself and all of us!" The rest of what she says I cannot understand. Too rapid is the tirade and too many words I do not know are mixed in.

I compose myself and wait. Running is the worst I can do now.

"You say sorry!"

It is an order and Rana is cowed enough to comply: "I'm sorry."

She doesn't look at me and there is no honesty in her words. Still, it's going to be the best I'm going to get.

"And I am sorry that our disagreement has disturbed this hour of peace. Tamara, may I be excused?"

"You are free to go as you please, Bari-chey."

"Thank you."

I nod at the women and search my way out of their circle.

_Author's Note: To anyone who actually speaks Romani: I'm sorry that I'm slaughtering the language. But it is such a nice fit for the story. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Fire and sunrise**

Out of the corral and into the forest, not too far, but I need to be alone to calm down. I don't usually lose my temper like this. But too much has happened in the past two days. It has left me raw.

I've been traveling with Deadman for months now, but I have found out more about him from Puri Daj than I've gotten from him in the whole time. And I get irritated when I just think about Rana. Even my skirts' jingling sounds angry.

I don't get any further in my thoughts.

He's catching up quickly.

I don't think I could outrun him even if I wanted to. So I turn and wait for him.

He stops a few feet away, worry still creasing his brow. Without my noticing it, I have become important to him. Has he noticed it?

"You ok?"

Lying to him has never worked. So I take the first out that comes to mind: "Tachiben y svatura. Puri Daj told me to tell you that."

His breath catches.

"What does it mean?"

"She didn't tell you?"

I shake my head.

For a moment, he looks away. He's contemplating a lie. I can feel it.

All of my anger is suddenly replaced with worry. "Please. Please don't."

He closes his eyes for a moment, then he gives in: "Truth and stories. That is what it translates to. It's our – their – way of teaching. She wants me to teach you. And to answer your questions."

Yeah. I was right. This is not going to go over well. "Any question?"

He clenches his teeth so hard that his lips turn into a sharp white line but he nods.

"About the ways of the travelers or about you?"

"Tachiben. The truth. There is no distinction between one and the other."

"And you will tell me?"

He turns away for a moment but when he looks back at me, there is resolve in his features. He nods.

"But how? How can she change the rules?"

"She can't."

Puri Daj's words come back to me. "Neither an outsider nor a traveler…" She knew she was setting me up for this, of course. "She found a loophole."

He attempts a weak smile: "You are not supposed to exist, Bari-chey."

I go over everything Puri Daj has said to me about him, from her first stern warning to the softness in her voice when she told me to ask him about the meaning of her words. Something becomes clear to me. Whatever her opinion about him as mulengi, she has changed her attitude. She wants me to know his story. And even if he was aware of the loophole he wouldn't have told me. Not if I didn't specifically ask.

My hands have started to shake. Do I really want to know? I cross my arms, so that it won't be as noticeable.

But he notices anyway of course. "You don't have to ask."

And it would be easier, wouldn't it? For him, too. Not to be made to share what he doesn't want to share. But then… The first Bari-chey in five generations. There is no one else he will be able to share his story with.

I try to catch his eye.

He avoids me.

"Please."

His eyes are a deep forest green. The resonance starts to hum like a thousand bumblebees. I get no sign that warns me off from what I'm about to do. So I brace myself and ask: "What happened?"

He knows what I want to know but he still asks back: "When?"

"At the trial. And with your family."

He tears his eyes away from mine.

"Did you kill them?"

He is utterly still. "I cannot answer that."

I shake my head. "Whatever the answer, I can take it. You can tell me."

"No, you don't understand. I cannot answer that." He's starting to pace. All this nervous energy needs to go somewhere. "You know the judgment. You know what conclusions the divano came to. That is the answer I have to give."

He is running his hand through his hair and looks at me helplessly.

I understand: "You didn't. You didn't do it."

He shrugs. "There was a fire. I wasn't in there with them."

"A fire in your wagon?"

He nods.

"They assumed you laid it because you weren't in there with them?"

Again he nods.

"But you didn't?"

He sits back down heavily and buries his face in his hands.

"Tachiben", he finally says so softly that I almost can't hear him.

"But it is my truth only, Bari-chey." He gives me the saddest smile, "when I tell you this, you have to hide it in your heart and forget it there. You cannot talk to anyone about it. Not here, not anywhere. It will make no difference in my life or yours. Can you promise me that?"

I try to think quickly: "Puri Daj?" Because I have a feeling she didn't set me up to this to just have the outcome forgotten.

He shakes his head firmly. "She's a seer. If it is important, she knows. In any case, it cannot make a difference for her, either."

I can't think of anyone else who could be an exception to the rule: "Alright. I will hide it in my heart unless you allow me talk about it. I promise."

He nods but still takes a moment to collect his thoughts.

His voice is halting and unsteady. He has buried this story deep inside him. "You have to know how I was when... I was not a good kid. I hated my father. I hated our way of living. I tried to cross him at any point that I could. I got into fights. Many, many fights. I had grown too tall and strong for my father to beat me up, too. I had such disdain for everything that I long for now."

I can hear the unshed tears in his voice and my instincts are to go closer. To heal. But I can't. So I just find myself a spot at his feet and listen.

"My brother on the other hand - he was no less rebellious but he was so different from me. So suave. So handsome. Could talk his way out of any trouble he got into. I envied him for that. The crowd he hung out with, though. If I was no good, they were worse news. I saw them that night. Hanging out in the shadow of our wagon. Torturing the dog, as far as I could see. Anyway, my brother - "

He pauses.

"- my brother liked fire."

A cold knot forms in my stomach as he lets his words settle in.

"I can't be sure. All the years, I've seen that moment again and again in my mind and I'm still not sure. But it looked like fireworks. I don't know where he got them. I don't know what he did with them. All I know is that I walked by and didn't ask. Didn't stop him. Went to feed the horses. And then just took off. Because I knew it would rile my father if I wasn't home in time for dinner. Turns out I was home in time to see them burn…"

He breaks off and for a moment the noises of the forest engulf us.

"It wasn't your fault."

"The divano saw it differently."

"Did you tell them?"

"Yes. But I was - not well liked. And everyone knew I hated my father. They didn't think my story very believable. Especially since my brother's friends swore that they never played with fire or fireworks. The punishment for that would have been no less severe."

"I am sorry." I truly am.

He shakes his head: "I may not have planned to kill them, but if what I saw is true, then I did anyway."

"You know that that's not true."

"He was my little brother. He was my responsibility."

Now that I understand. I had a brother, too, after all. A brother who is dead because I couldn't save him. "Still doesn't make it true."

"You are kind, Bari-chey. Kinder than you should be."

I shake my head. "You know I have guilt on my soul, too. That is not your exclusive domain."

The forceful comment creates a small smile. It is not much, but maybe already more than I could hope for right now.

"You stood, Deadman. You stood and faced what fate had in store for you. And you accepted it without a blink. You are much stronger than me. I just ran."

I can still feel the panic rise in me when I think of that moment. Of the sudden clarity. I was too young. Younger than he was when his old life ended. But it is hard to forgive myself.

"Ghost…"

Only when he touches my face do I notice the tears that are spilling onto my cheeks. I turn my head away. I have not allowed myself to openly cry in front of someone else since I was four years old.

"Eliza. My name's Eliza."

I regret it in the same instant.

But it is too late. I can see that he is already putting together the pieces. Remembering the little inconsistencies, the knife with the sigil, the knowledge that I shouldn't possess, the insistent wish to leave the noblemen of the core realm behind. Remembering those damn likenesses that are still hanging on the walls of said noblemen and that aren't too unlike me when my hair is down and I'm wearing a dress.

Already, I can feel my posture beginning to change. My spine straightening, the tears drying as my face becomes harder.

Dread forms in my stomach. This is not who I want to be. It has never been who I wanted to be.

"Ravenwings", is what he finally murmurs.

My lips pressed together, my spine rigid, I consider my next move. I should be cold and rational about this. Not endanger myself more.

But I have trusted him this far.

"The raven wings belong to someone else. Here", I take off the leather cord that holds my most valuable possession and hand it to him, "this belongs to me."

He takes it so warily, it's as if he expects the ring to be scalding hot. Silently, he turns it in his fingers, until the sigil is visible.

He has guessed it already but still his shock travels up the connection. It punches me in the guts and makes me forget my fear for myself. "Forgive me, Deadman. I should have told you or left you alone."

No matter what I could have said, had one of the noblemen recognized me and dragged me back, the life of the one who they took for my lover would have been forfeit. My father would have made sure of that.

"The rising sun." He stares at the sigil as if he has seen a ghost. Well, in a way he has.

I hold out my hand and he quickly drops the ring into my palm. I let it disappear in the depth of my blouse.

"Please forgive me. I knew what danger I was putting you in."

He is shaken and unsure about how to treat me, but his resolve is steady as a rock underneath. "Ghost – Eliza - Your Highness. It makes no difference. I was dead long before I met you. Laying my life at your feet, willingly or not, cannot make things worse."

"Oh, stop it!" I punch him in the arm. "I'm Ghost. A healer and now Bari-chey. Don't you dare treat me any different!"

"But you're also…"

"I know what I am!" I snap with such force that he shuts up.

The silence that follows is unnerving.

"Town gossip has you dead", he finally says matter-of-factly.

"Missing, most likely dead, was the announcement I think. I do believe there is still a reward on bringing me back." I stare him down.

Of all possible responses, his is to chuckle. Red-rimmed eyes from crying earlier, I look anything but impressive I guess.

"Your Highness, you know that you have nothing to fear from me."

His tone is gently mocking and I breathe a sigh of relief. I don't want to lose him.

"Don't get cute with me now", I warn him in the same tone, "I know your story. I'm going to take you down with me if I have to."

Instantly, he is worried. "Ghost, you wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't", I concede without any pretense. "But, Deadman, if they find me", I don't know how to word this, "you'll need to run. You'll need to run long and hard."

He thinks about this for a moment. Then he touches the hilt of my Ravenwings knife. I have fastened it to my new belt the same way I did with the old. "Your brother is dead."

"I know."

"So is your sister. The one, who was next in line. After you."

I breathe through the pain that his words cause: "I stand a fighting chance now. I didn't back then", now it is me whose voice won't cooperate, "back when my brother..." I shake my head to dispel the demons.

"He was killed? Your sister, too?"

He asks it as a question but the bond tells me that he is already certain. I nod.

"Do you know?"

"Who killed them?" I nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do." It is the fabric most of my nightmares are woven from.

I can't know for certain with my sister, of course. It might have been blood poisoning from a fall as they said in the official announcement. I wasn't there after all.

But it was pretty specific, the residue I found. I remember the day and the song, in the temple, before the funeral. I can still taste my brother's dried blood and the venom within it.

"Then why didn't you tell?"

"It was not a very believable story", I echo his words. "And I was still a child. Don't you think they'd have found a way to shut me up the moment they suspected I knew something?"

He has no answer for that.

"No. No, I'm sure that I'm only alive because I ran." It still grates on me, though. That I wasn't able to do anything. Especially for my sister. I should at least have found a way to warn her before I ran.

Sighing, I look up at him: "So there it is. My shame and my guilt. I ran and my little sister died for me."

"Ghost..."

I feel his compassion for me as clearly through the bond as if he had wrapped his arms around me. I fight the unwelcome tears that threaten to come with it.

But the same way I can't let go of my compassion for him, he doesn't let go of his compassion for me and he doesn't attempt to hide it, either.

Instead, for the first time, it is he who takes my hand and holds it and not the other way around.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: New normal**

Back in the camp, we do what customs demand. I share my meal with the clan, sitting next to Tamara, who is now playing nursemaid to both me and Rana. I can feel Puri Daj's gaze on me, even though I don't turn towards her and she doesn't address me.

But I can't even pretend to take part in the conversations and the laughter around me.

He has found a place to the side, near the fire but out of the way. He looks unfamiliar without the armor and sword at his side. Unfamiliar also because of what we have shared.

Rana flashes me a challenging smile when she sees my gaze. But I am not in the mood for a child's games. So I just shake my head and settle my eyes on my bowl.

She isn't one to give up so easily, though. Instead, she gets up, provocatively slow and sending me a glance every few steps to make sure I notice her. She goes over to the fire and gets another bowl of the stew. Then, she just stands there, looking back at me, the challenge still clear in her eyes.

I don't like it but I shrug. "Go ahead." It is not a fight I am willing to engage in.

Hips swaying from side to side, she makes her way over to where he sits.

I can feel a definite growl coming on.

Tamara has now noticed her cousin, too.

I hold her down as she wants to jump up. "Let her be. She needs to do what she needs to do."

"But –"

"It will play out sometime. Either here and now, or at some other point. At least here, you can see what is happening."

She would still run over if I didn't hold her down, though.

Instead, I concentrate on the humming of the bond and on my feelings. I cannot send him a message in words, but I can make my pulse race and my hands sweat. A warning.

He doesn't change his posture but I can feel him tense.

A few heartbeats later, she kneels down beside him.

I cannot hear what she says, but her body language says it all. The curve of her spine, the shoulders far back to show off her cleavage, at the same time keeping her eyelashes down and playing the shy little girl.

I clench my teeth hard.

So far, he hasn't moved an inch but now he turns his head away from her.

She has sat the bowl on the ground and keeps talking. When he doesn't answer or turn back around to her, she stretches out a hand to touch his arm.

I breathe through my gritted teeth to keep the angry hiss inside.

But there is no need.

In one smooth movement he is getting up and is already ducking out of the tent and into the night.

I relax my hand on Tamara's arm. I breathe out deeply: "She has her answer. Now you can go and make her life miserable."

Tamara doesn't need the invitation, she is already on her way over and before Rana can even react she has slapped her squarely across the face.

I wince at the force of the blow. That will leave a mark.

She proceeds to shake her and yell at her until a few other women get up and drag both of them out of the tent.

For a while, everyone is frozen in shocked silence. Then, one by one, low conversations start up again.

I look at Puri Daj to see how she has taken the spectacle. But her face gives nothing away.

So I turn to the woman next to me: "Evelyn? Can you explain it to me, please? What happens if a mulengi talks to one of the travelers."

Her face is creased in a frown. "Should not happen. Travelers do not talk to mulengi."

"I know. But Rana just did."

"Rana – stupid. Dead man did right. Walk away." She gives me a smile: "Is not forbidden, talking when you're a shadow. But is like the begging and pleading of a fly and not worthy of a man. Of course is forbidden to answer. Brings shame."

"Thank you. You have much to teach me."

She gives me a friendly pat on the back: "Is good, Bari-chey. You – different."

I smile back at her. Yes, different.

After a while, the incident is outwardly forgotten. Musicians are unpacking their fiddles and a sort of battle of songs between the women and the men starts. Tamara comes back alone. She bends down to whisper something in Puri Daj's ear, who just nods and sends Tamara to the rest of us.

I try to catch her eye but she avoids me. So I stay for another while, but finally I can't take it anymore and get up.

Outside, the night air is cool but clear. I breathe it in deeply. It is a welcome change from the rains that had everything soaking wet and the air almost too humid to breathe for a whole month.

Before leading my steps to our own home, I go over towards the wagon Tamara shares with her family. No door is locked with the travelers and I go in unhindered.

She tries to suppress her sobbing the moment she hears me. I ignore her for the time being and go over to Kara. Humming my favorite nursery rhyme, I lay my hand on her cheek ever so softly. She is fast asleep but she is in the dream world of normal nights and not anymore in the realm of the passing.

"She will wake up on her own in the morning, you can tell Tamara that."

She doesn't answer. In the dark, all I can make out is her shadow sitting huddled in a corner of her bed.

I sigh. "If you want me to, I can take the sting out of that bruise."

"You can?" Her voice is full of the tears she's shed.

I cautiously sit down on the edge of her bed. "Sure. I can heal it just like other things."

She thinks about it. "No", she finally sighs.

"Alright", I nod. "It is probably better that way. It is meant to hurt for a reason."

I get up and go to the bowl of fresh water next to Kara's bed. I dunk one of the linen cloths into the cool water, wring it out and bring it over to her: "Here. Cooling it will keep down the swelling."

She takes it from me and winces slightly as she puts the cloth on her face.

"He won't bring shame on you and your family. And he would do exactly that if he talked to you. You know that, right?"

I get no answer, so I sigh and turn to leave. "Good night then, Rana."

"Bari-chey?" she calls me back.

"Yes?"

"It is still a stupid rule."

Against my will, I smile. "Yeah. That it is."

He's waiting for me in the dark of our new home.

"Hey."

"How's your patient?"

He's tracked my movement through the corral. "Better. Rana, too."

"That her name?"

"Yeah."

"She get in trouble?"

"Yeah."

"She deserves to."

My reasons for agreeing with him have more to do with that growl and hiss I felt coming on than with any righteous indignation, so I just shrug. "Cut her some slack. She's 16. Was raised in the city. A rebellious child who doesn't know what she's doing."

His eyes reflect the moon as he turns to look at me. "If you look for trouble, trouble will find you."

"I didn't. Look for trouble. It found me anyway."

For a moment, the silence between us stretches.

Then I sigh: "I can't sleep in all this jingly stuff. I'll have to get rid of it."

Without words, he turns.

He keeps the bond void of his emotions, but there's something. Something in the way that he told me I was beautiful. Something in the way I didn't like to see him with Rana. I can't put my finger on it and I don't dare to try.

I've been raised to avoid touching anyone who wasn't my nurse or my sisters, the healing being the only exemption. He's learned to avoid all contact. And still, we've longed for a bit of human warmth and we've allowed us the small grace that comes with a hand that holds yours when you're hurting or a back that spends warmth on a cold night.

I slip into my long shirt, the one that I normally wear under my leather pants and woolen sweater. "Done."

He doesn't turn back to me so I just slip under the covers on my side of the bed.

He still doesn't move.

"Not tired?"

"I'm plenty tired."

"But?"

"But this isn't right."

"Didn't we have this conversation just yesterday?"

"I didn't know yesterday."

Frustration makes me sigh. "Deadman, I'm not a different person than yesterday. Neither are you."

Now he looks at me after all: "You sure?"

"Just come sleep."

Slowly and deliberately he makes his way to the backside of the bed. He's avoiding me the same way he did in the beginning.

"Deadman, please", suddenly I feel so tired that I don't think I can take this. "You're the only friend I have. I don't want to lose you over something I can't change."

I half expect him to answer with the standard reply, that I shouldn't see him as a friend.

But he surprises me: "Why do you think this happened to us?"

"Which part?" There are honestly too many things that have happened to either of us.

"The link. I thought about this tonight. We wouldn't be here without it. Or, I certainly wouldn't. If by some miracle I had lived through that night, I'd be fighting someone somewhere."

I shrug. "I could just as easily have perished in the storm. I was solidly out of food. So I'd not be here, either, most likely." I've thought about the same thing once in a while. But I have no answer for him. "I can ask Puri Daj if you want. Maybe she knows."

Then I feel something through the link. "You're in pain."

"It's alright, Bari-chey."

"No, it's not." I sit back up and start humming a few notes. Physical pain is not something that you can hide easily from me, especially not if you're linked to me.

"You are tired. It will heal on its own."

Instead of listening to him, I sing the first notes of the song that takes the pain and brings sleep.

"Stop it, Ghost."

He's had ample chance to learn the difference between the basic songs so he knows that I'm threatening him.

"Show me, then."

Sighing, he obeys. He slips his shirt over his head. The scar from our first meeting is visible as a slight pink line on his white skin. But on his side above the hip, the skin is dark against the pale moonlight.

"What did you do?"

He shrugs. "Repairs to the wagon. One of the wood beams slipped."

There are scratches but most of the damage is internal. Softly, I lay my hand on it.

He shudders but he stays still.

He is right, it would heal all by itself. But I don't like seeing him in more pain than he is already in. And this pain is easily treated.

It is a simple melody, swaying back and forth in repeating rhythms to make the blood flow back to where it belongs. I can feel the muscles relax under my hand as the bruises start to fade. Simultaneously, his pain lessens and finally disappears. As usual, it fills my heart with a joy that is stronger than the drain of my power.

He laughs softly when he feels it through the bond. "Sometimes I think you try to heal everything that has ever ailed me all over. And make the scars disappear on top of it."

I sing one last repeat of the melody but leave my hand where it is for a moment longer. "Would that I could."

"Would that I could give you something in return."

"But you can." I lean back against the wall. "Teach me."

He settles himself next to me.

Fragments of music and laughter drift over to us.

He closes his eyes as he listens to it for a moment. When he opens them again, there is a peaceful calm in them that I don't know from him. "Alright. I will teach you. If you understand nothing else about us, about the travelers, then this will guide you: Being together is everything. Being alone is something that is never good and always suspicious."

"You like your space, in your houses and your gardens. You go on walks on your own. Unless it is in the depth of winter and you're freezing, you like to have a bed or a room to yourself. Travelers are different. Travelers need their families close. Literally close. Townies think travelers are always standing or sitting a bit too close to them. They think it's to prepare a scam."

He laughs softly. "In truth, it often enough is. But you've seen them when no gadje is around. They are never alone. Unless they are very sick or getting punished."

"Tamara slapped Rana across the face. Then the women dragged her out. I found her in the wagon all by herself."

He nods. "The worse punishment by far, to be excluded from the group. Even if it's just for one night."

"She wanted to show her how it feels", I didn't have that thought before. "To be outcast. To be alone."

"You have to understand, Bari-chey. Travelers, wherever they go, are strangers. They always take a gamble. No one cares if they get hunted or killed. They have only themselves."

I nod. I understand. "Say my name."

"Ghost."

"No, the other one."

"Eliza", he says very quietly.

"Everyone cares. Where princesses go. What they do. How they behave. But in the end, there was still no one. You are the first person, you know that? The first one who I told."

He is silent for a moment. "You asked me to run if they found you, mira printesa. But I'm not going to. Not even if you command it."

I puzzle the translation together: "Did you just call me your princess?"

He smiles. "I wouldn't leave Your Highness to fend for herself, either."

It is no use arguing with him when he has made up his mind about something. "So let's make sure it doesn't happen for as long as we can."

"You don't miss your old life?"

"I miss my sisters and brothers sometimes." Hell, there are days when I even miss my father. But: "I can be useful to about everyone else, but not to myself, Deadman. I don't get sick in the same way others do. I do not even starve as fast. But a poison or a blade can kill me like anyone else. And I cannot give myself my own energy. I'll be helpless when they come for me."

And this is the better scenario. The one where my other skills still give me a chance. The one that worries me is the one it is not a poison or a blade. Where it is something darker.

He considers my words for a while. "Helpless you are not, Bari-chey. But it is good to be prepared before entering a battle."

"Are you a seer, too, now?"

He laughs softly: "No. But I do not think the fates have planned for you to live in a wagon with me until you're old and grey."

The fates can kiss my ass.

* * *

_You know me, I live for reviews, so if you have the time, drop me a line!_


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Traveling**

In the morning, the air itself is buzzing with activity.

Deadman takes one look at the commotion and knows what's going on: "We're traveling."

As soon as he says it, I see it, too. The men are pulling down the tent, the women are packing up the stores.

"Go, get us some bread. I will see to it that the wagon and the horses are ready."

Without further ado he is gone.

I make my way over to the other women.

Despite the incident last night, Tamara greets me with a hug and a grateful smile.

"Kara has woken up?" I venture.

"She is walking on her own legs."

"Very good."

"Puri Daj decides, everyone healthy enough to go on. Lost too much time already. Need to be North."

"What can I do?"

"Not stand in way."

So I try to do that. I help where I can, but they are moving to the rhythm of an inaudible song, every hand exactly in the place where it should be, every note played a thousand times over. Since I don't know the song, I am out of tune. Finally, I just do what he told me. I go by the women who are baking a stack of flat, round loaves of bread and get handed two of them.

Then I just stand by the side for a while and watch the symphony to make sense of it for next time.

When the chaos starts to clear and people start heading towards their own wagons, I also head back. The steps to the door of our wagon have disappeared. Instead, the horses are harnessed and stamping their hooves, apparently eager to start out.

"Here."

Deadman holds his hand out and I hand him the bread. Then he holds out a hand for me and I climb up beside him. The entry area now is just a flat board, a box seat of sorts.

The first wagons are already rolling. Some are drawn by one horse, some by two. Some have the second horse tied to the back of the wagon, just trotting along. There are travelers riding on their wagons like we do, others are walking alongside their horses.

"First come the storage wagons, then the families. Whatever there is in wares for sale comes last."

We watch the row of wagons pass until at some invisible signal he finally clicks his tongue and tightens the reins. "Giddy up, Clover. Go, Dandelion, go."

"You named the horses!"

He laughs. "And why shouldn't I? Everything that can have a name should have one."

Suddenly, I feel giddy and excited at the prospect of traveling, even though it is what we do all the time.

From my vantage point, the steadily rolling wagons train looks like a rainbow snail, we ourselves a part of the spine somewhere in the middle.

Children are running next to the wagons, climbing up onto a roof somewhere and hitching a ride until they get bored and jump back down again.

A few riders are flanking the trail, young men mostly, whose serious faces indicate that their task is important.

"What exactly is it that they are doing?" I ask Deadman.

"Finding out whether the path is clear. Riding ahead to spot danger. Staying back to catch any stragglers. Hunting, when it's safe. In case of attack, making sure there is enough time for the wagons to corral up. It's hard to defend a whole people."

I can see that that's true. There are no walls or trenches for the women and children to hide behind.

"See the pails?" He points at the pail that is hanging from the wagon in front of us. Water is gently sloshing in it, sometimes spilling over when a wheel catches on a stone and jolts forward.

"Yes."

"Every wagon has at least one. Townies have figured it out well enough, that to get rid of the travelers, fire is the easiest way."

"That's despicable."

"Yes", he agrees.

"What is it this clan does in the cities?"

"Peddling, mostly, from what I've seen. Though they seem to have fallen on a rough patch. So the men will try to get what work they can while the women find some lovely rich city ladies to tell their fortunes to, and the children steal what cannot be obtained otherwise."

He doesn't sound like he's joking.

"Also sounds not quite honest to me. "

"Strangers everywhere, Bari-chey. Strangers who are tolerated at best. They do not belong anywhere, so they do what they can for their families to survive."

A group of scraggly boys run by. None of them wears shoes, none of them looks like he's got an ounce more meat on his bones than necessary to keep him going. There are more than enough poor in the towns and cities, too. Downtrodden, angry and suspicious. Doing what they have to to survive. At least the travelers have each other. "I understand."

But then a question comes to my mind: "If you're strangers everywhere, then what about the realm? Do you feel like you belong to the realm?"

He answers with a counter question: "What about the realm? Does the realm feel we belong?"

"I do."

"And that is good. But you are not the realm, mira printesa."

I think about that. "You never tell the noblemen you're a traveler. Is it because of being mulengi or because of how they'd react?"

"It's hard to separate the one from the other. If they ask, I am from the West. Which is true enough and makes me no more honest or dishonest in their eyes."

"And if you said you were a traveler?"

"Many would not hire me, no matter that I am strong and a good fighter. It is alright for a traveler to be a hired hand on the fields, but no one trusts their life to depend on one."

"I do." I answer again because I do not know what else to answer.

"And had I known who you are when I met you, I wouldn't have taken it as much for granted as I have."

"What did you think anyway?" It is amazing, the things you can suddenly ask when you have come clean about your biggest secrets.

He shrugs: "I was a bit pre-occupied. What with the wound and the snow storm and everything else. But you shouldn't have known about a name being taboo. So I assumed that you had had dealings with the travelers before. Only…"

"If I knew that much I should have known enough to leave you alone?" Not hard to deduct that one.

He nods.

The horses' backs sway in a steady rhythm. Since they feed themselves, they are better fed than the humans.

"Deadman?"

"Hmm?"

"If I ask Puri Daj about the link and she says she has a way to undo it – would you want that?" It is a question that has been burning on my mind since the possibility occurred to me.

For the longest time, he doesn't answer. When he finally does, his voice is heavy: "I am weak and selfish, Bari-chey. So if I answer you honest, I would rather see you bound to me without regard to how unfair it is to you."

"Good", I breathe a sigh of relief. "I was worried."

He gives me the strangest look.

"What? Do you think I want to go back to being alone?"

He shakes his head. "But you wouldn't have to be, Bari-chey. You could find a home here. Or in a million other places. You do not need me."

The minute he says "home" something clicks into place. "What's your name?"

I can feel his hurt like a punch to the stomach.

"No, I mean it. Tell me your name."

"It is a dead name. It will not be spoken."

"No. I do not accept that. You said it yourself, I am Bari-chey. I should not exist. The rules were not made for me."

"But I have to follow them."

He's gotten louder than ever before.

"Tell me your name", I insist.

"No."

"Then I will find it out. I don't know how but I will."

For a while, sullen silence engulfs us. But I'm not willing to apologize and he's not willing to give in.

"I guess that answers your question", he eventually says. "We might be part of the realm, but not enough to obey your will, Your Highness."

The bitterness stings.

"You know quite well that I wasn't asking as Your Highness. Not that I am. Princess Eliza is dead, remember?"

"Missing. Rumored dead. But one day it'll come out that she's alive, I'm sure."

"Is that what it is? Are you protecting yourself already?"

"Your Highness, with all due respect. One day your father will die. And you will go back and take your rightful place."

"And Prince Charming and I will rule the peaceful realm with nothing but love and grace and our dozen children will be the joy of the nation." The sarcasm is so thick in my voice that it is dripping like honey.

"I wish it for you", is all he answers.

I have to keep a tight rein on myself not to slap him. "I'll walk."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Keepers**

After an hour or so of walking, I'm calmer. So I go and find Puri Daj.

I nod at the young man leading her horse. I do not know his name. While they eat and laugh and travel together, there is little direct contact between the young men and women, especially the ones who aren't married.

Puri Daj is inside her wagon. I almost fall over when the wagon jolts. It isn't the most comfortable way to travel.

"I've been waiting for you."

She sits on her bed, propped up on a dozen pillows.

"You don't share your wagon."

"They are all my family, child. I cannot fit them all."

It is not quite the truth and not quite a lie as far as I can tell.

"You have found answers about the past."

She pats a pillow next to her and I sit down, carefully choosing my spot. She reminds me much of my father that way, even sitting on eye-level with her I find a position that makes me appear lower.

"I have found answers, but I have also found new questions, Puri Daj."

She smiles: "Then he is teaching you well."

I hesitate with my question. But there is really no way of easing into this. "There is a link between the Deadman and me. A connection that sprang from my gift but that I cannot undo. It is a bond that is physical. It tells us where the other is and if we allow it, it tells us what the other feels."

I could hold out my hand and show her the exact location he is at now, including the swaying of the horses. I'd have more trouble pinpointing his feelings, apart from that he is still angry at me. He makes no effort at hiding that.

"Puri Daj, you are a seer and you see much that is hidden. Maybe your gift provides you answers where mine does not."

She looks at me with interest but doesn't speak.

"Please, can you see our bond? Do you know why it exists? Is there a purpose to it?"

"Many questions, child. Many questions all at once."

"I'm sorry." I lower my head in a gesture of deference. To tell the truth, I am tired much more than sorry, tired of riddles, tired of fighting with him, tired of the walls I keep running into.

"Tell me, child, what is it you feel for him?"

I hesitate.

"Speak freely, child."

"I feel – many things I guess. I get angry at him. I feel sad for him. I also feel protective. Like I will always keep him safe. At the same time, I feel protected. Like he has always kept me safe. I trust him."

She nods thoughtfully. "How long have you known him?"

"Since the winter. We met in a storm."

She shakes her head. "Give me your hands, child."

Her hands feel frail, like thin paper, as she takes my fingers into hers, our arms forming a circle as we face each other.

"Now, child, answer me again. How long have you known him?"

I want to scream and scramble away, but her frail hands are strong as iron.

In quick succession, images run through my head. I cannot make sense of them as the sceneries switch and sway wildly from forests to deserts and oceans.

She lets go of my hands and a bowl appears under my nose just at the moment that I realize I am going to throw up.

I retch until my stomach is empty and then some. It is a strange and horrible feeling. I am not used to being sick.

When I am done, she looks at me out of her old eyes, taking no notice of the stench, and asks me sternly: "Answer me, child."

The different sceneries flash before my eyes again, places I have never been, places I have never even heard of. But there is one fixture. One solid rock in the whirlwind, though his clothes change with the times and places.

My ears don't want to believe my words: "Many life-times. I've known him for many life-times."

"Good. That is your lesson for now. Now go and wash that bowl and then come back."

I am too stunned to even reply but my legs stumble up on their own.

"And, child? When you return, bring him with you."

I try to clear my head with the cold water of the little stream before washing the bowl in it. My hands are shaking as I rinse my mouth.

I see the scenes again and again. Strange, unfamiliar, and yet they touch something in me. Something that I didn't know was there.

I can't remember being this afraid.

"Don't dawdle! No one stays behind!" One of the young riders comes trotting up to me as the end of the row of wagons comes in sight.

I nod and try to be faster.

"Come on, hurry up." He stops by my side.

"Give me a moment, will you? I will not fall behind."

"No, woman, you need to move. It is not safe to be alone."

"I understand, alright?" But in truth, I'm not sure my legs will support me.

The rider leans down and grabs my arm to drag me up. "Come on, woman, you need to be back where you belong."

I wince at the tight grip, the pain giving me enough incentive to come to my feet to avoid being dragged.

"Do not touch her!"

Before I know what is happening, the hand is being wrenched from my arm and all I can see is Deadman's back.

The horse rears and it takes all the rider's effort not to fall.

I grab Deadman's shirt to keep him from going after the guy. "It's not his fault." But my voice is shaking and I have to fight to keep him by my side.

Between our struggle and the nerves of the rider, the last wagons have passed us by the time the horse is finally back under control.

Its riders' face is scared, though. Still, he braves us one more time. "You need to be moving." He averts his eyes from Deadman and talks only to me.

Deadman answers with a low growl and I just cling on to him so that he doesn't do anything stupid.

When the guy spurs his horse, I breathe a shaky sigh of relief. But then Deadman turns around, his face reverting from stone back to flesh and all the images, all the different version of him that I have seen slam into my head again.

It makes me dizzy and now I grab him for support instead of trying to hold him back.

"Are you ok?"

I shake my head.

Immediately, the growl is back: "What did he do?"

"Nothing. I… It's…" I try to think up something more coherent but I can't. My head swims with all the memories that are mine and not mine at the same time. And my legs still feel like they will give out under me.

He catches my arm with his hand and steadies me. Strong, unwavering, a rock in the whirlwind of time.

I look at his hand, at his hand on the naked skin of my arm. I've always hesitated. Hesitated touching him. Because of the taboo. Because of the resonance. Because of any reason I could make up.

When really I was scared. Scared of the feelings that came with every touch. Feelings that I haven't known before. Yet that are so very familiar. Feelings that once awoken can never be un-felt.

I lay my other hand on his hand on my arm. I look up at him for permission and find only worry and puzzlement. So I slide my fingers between his, the pressure slight but the touch warm and fast. I loosen his grip on my arm so that I can step forward. Leaving my fingers tangled in his, I close the distance between us. I do not embrace him, do not want to scare him with too much, too fast.

But I know that while I'm still scared, still scared of everything else, this can't hurt me anymore. And so I rest my head on his chest, motionless, soaking in his smell and his warmth.

He stands, frozen. But then his other hand comes up, finds a place on my hip without him having to search for it. He draws me close and I let myself sink into his side. His chin comes to rest on the top of my head, lightly, gently.

The movement so familiar.

Our bodies fitting together like two pieces from one mold.

He smells of anger and fear and horses and rain and spring.

It's his smell more than anything.

It takes me back to a time I can't remember. A time I was standing with him, just like this, only he had his coat slung around me against the cold. We were watching a city burn beneath us but the smoke never reached us. We were too late.

It takes me back to a time where I cling onto him, helplessly crying even though I know what must be done. That we must part and will not see each other again in this life-time. Already my body yearns for his touch which it knows so well and which it knows it must lose.

"Do not cry, Bari-chey. Do not cry, please."

The quiet voice brings me back to the present. But I still cling to him, cling to him as if I must lose him right here, right now, before we have even found each other.

He strokes my hair, very softly.

We've been this, this and a thousand other things. We've ruled together and we've fought on opposing sides of wars. We've loved and we've hoped. We've beaten the odds and we've lost against them.

But we have always, always found each other.

Suddenly I'm calm. We have found each other and whatever else is wrong with the world, this is as it is supposed to be. I look up at him and my eyes find his and I smile.

There is something new in his eyes, too. I cannot decipher it but for the first time it is not pain and grief that I find first.

"Come with me, please", I ask him.

He follows as I lead him back, catching the end of the train and working our way along the row of wagons.

Only when I slow down next to Puri Daj's wagon does he shake his head. "We need to get back, I can only leave the horses alone for so long."

I spot a group of children. "Eric!"

He comes running.

"Can you do me a favor? Can you and your friends keep our horses in line for a while? We won't be long."

He looks from me to Deadman and back but he shrugs: "Yes, Bari-chey."

He runs off, a loud whistle changing the direction of his friends as surely as any explanation he could have given.

I look back at my friend. At my lover. At my soul-mate. Who doesn't know that he is all these things. "Don't be afraid."

I climb the stairs without looking back. I know that he'll be following.

Inside, the smell of incense in the air is hitting me like a brick.

"Took you long enough." Puri Daj is impatient as usual.

"You are right. It took me very long. I needed to find him."

She laughs her cackling laugh, the joke not lost on her. "Come over here, both of you."

I obey without hesitation, but this time he is not following me.

"There are rules, Deadman", she says while she takes the pack of cards that has been lying in front of her into her hands. "Rules that we have to follow. But some of them have more weight than others."

She draws a card at random from the deck and lays it out openly in front of her. The Hanged Man.

"Come, sit with me", she invites him again.

This time, he complies, his gaze drawn by the figure on the card.

She points at the picture: "Captured, judged and bound. No way out. You know the feeling, I gather."

He nods.

She smiles. "But there is more to him than you see on first glance. Look. His right foot is bound, his left is not. He could get away if he wanted. But here, the spirits are still with him, lighting a bright halo around his head. Yes, he is bound and restricted. But it is his own surrender that makes him shine."

He bites his lip.

She takes the next card out of the deck. Gently, she smoothens it down as she lays it next to the Hanged Man. The Empress. "Ah, the one crowned by the stars. Ancient like the Earth and the seasons. Lush and young as a fresh summer's day."

He looks from the card to me.

"Of course, I do not need to tell you about her. You know her already."

In quick succession, she uncovers the next three cards. Death. The Lovers. The Wheel of Fortune.

"Can it get any clearer than this?" The crone nods satisfied and points at the first card: "To be reborn, the old has to die. What was impure has to be cleaned. Sometimes over many life-times, sometimes in the span of an instant. For what is new and pure and old and wise at the same time can find together. Two souls, eternally bound, following each other through every turn of the wheel, every age and every time."

Then she uncovers the final card. "The World. I should have thought so. You have a purpose in this day and age. Both of you." She lays The World under The Lovers. "You will need to find it together."

I look at the card, the dancer so strangely similar to the Hanged Man, the legs crossed the same way. "Can you show him? Can you show him the same way you showed me?"

She looks at him and her eyes are suddenly sad: "No. Some rules are older than others and they take preference where I am concerned," she points at the Wheel of Fortune again. "But the rules of this age still have to be obeyed. I cannot touch him, child. Not at this point. Not before he's reborn." She taps the Death card lightly with her finger.

I look at the sun rising behind the skeleton on his pale mare. It looks exactly like my sunrise. I clutch the ring through the fabric of my blouse.

"Then help me show him", I ask her.

Her eyebrows rise: "You did not take to it easily, the first time. It is dangerous, wanting too much, too fast."

And I really don't want to go there, either. "Give me your hands", I ask him.

"Ghost, what are you doing?" His voice is soft and for the first time I notice that in the whole time we've been here, he hasn't spoken.

"Showing you the past."

"You don't need to."

"But I don't want to be alone in this."

"You aren't." He takes my hands after all. "The present is enough."

The minute he touches my hands, the air around us changes. It sizzles and frazzles and the smell of incense suddenly changes into the smell of something burned. Deep blue fire like lightning bolts rips from his fingers all the way to the edges of my vision. I let go of him, suddenly scared.

He looks at his hands and from them to the edges of the room. My hair is still standing up like in the middle of a thunderstorm but the lightning is gone.

Puri Daj has leaned forward, her eyes glued to him: "Bring your hands together, dead man. Fingertips almost touching."

His eyes are wide but he obeys.

"Clear your mind of anything but the air between your fingers. Feel it. Feel it flow. Feel it crackle. Remember the sound it made just a minute ago. Remember how it tasted. Concentrate on that."

I run my tongue over my lips and indeed I taste something. Like biting down on metal or blood, though less sweet than the latter.

A tiny crackling spark appears and disappears. Then another one. Both confined between the tips of his fingers. The bond starts to tingle. Another lightning bolt appears and then another and another, until the crackling and sizzling is constant. They are no longer bound to his fingertips, instead bending and spinning until it looks like a flickering blue ball between his hands.

All the while, the power flowing through the bond has surged until it's reached such a height that it makes me dizzy.

"Enough!" The crone's voice brooks no argument.

He draws his hands apart and the fire disappears.

When she speaks again, she sounds worried: "A spark can kindle a fire which burns down a whole people."

Immediately he holds up his hands and averts his eyes, submitting to her as clearly as he can.

"Deadman, you found a spark. You need to learn to control it. And you need to learn it fast."

I'm slow to understand but then I get it: "It is a gift. Like your seeing or my healing."

She speaks to me but her eyes stay fixed on him: "Old souls acquire skills. This one is powerful. You found it in a moment of peace. But it is born out of battle. It is angry and violent. You have not been a traveler in other lives. You have been a warrior, terrible and mighty."

Something like fear shines in her eyes and I wonder whether it is the past or the future that she sees.

Something like fear shines in his eyes, too. "But how? I'm no Drabarno. I have no magic." It is the only time he has addressed her directly.

"But you are. And you have." She draws a circle around the bright aura that surrounds the Hanged Man's head. "You have been dead for too long. Dead to yourself. That is why you didn't find it. The magic needs life." She points at the Empress. "She brings life. She is your spark."

"Did you know this? Did you know this would happen?" I'm still stunned.

"No", she shakes her head. "But for good or for evil, he plays a role. I've seen this power once before…" She breaks off and stares into the distance.

Suddenly I'm freezing.

Then she looks back at me, deadly serious: "You will need to be his balance. Your love to counter his rage. In this life, you cannot lose each other or the outcome will be terrible."

* * *

_Author's Note: NikMick, thank you so much for your new review. It came at a good time when I was contemplating whether this story maybe was too AU for this site and whether I should pull it. But I have decided now that as long as someone is reading and enjoying the story I will keep posting. _


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note: I'm bumping the rating to M and I'm giving the second half of this chapter a trigger warning. My hubby says it's "not that bad" but I'd rather err on the side of caution. I'll be good again in the next chapter, I promise._

**Chapter 10: Lessons**

There are so many things that have happened and that we should talk about that we don't find a start. Instead, we travel silently and deep in thought until someone gives the command to stop for the day.

I help him with the horses. I'm not very practiced, but they like me anyway.

Afterwards, he disappears.

He doesn't want me to follow so I don't.

Instead, I sit on the front bench and stare into the gathering dark.

As if one life-time wasn't enough trouble for us. As if we needed to add eternities to that.

"Bari-chey?"

A young girl comes up to me.

I need a moment before I recognize her. "Kara. You look so much better."

She holds a small bowl. "Here, I wanted to give you these. I collected them for you."

The intense red of wild strawberries catches my eye, not even dimmed by the dusk.

"Thank you." Carefully, I take the bowl from her. Her hands are warm and there is a nice rose color to her cheeks. "How do you feel?"

"My legs tire fast."

"That is to be expected. I didn't actually think you'd be up and collecting strawberries already. So, you're ahead of schedule."

She smiles shyly. But I can already see the strength in her that both her mother and her grandmother possess.

"Want to sit with me and eat some strawberries?"

She looks uncertain.

"Don't worry, he's not here."

Her blush intensifies but she climbs up next to me. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"You're bound to him. And you like him."

Her face is open and innocent. Did Puri Daj talk to her?

"I do. It doesn't change things for you."

"I have been dreaming of him while I was sick."

"You have?"

She nods.

"What did you dream?"

She fidgets a little.

"Strawberry?"

She takes the offering and munches on a few strawberries before she answers. "He's shrouded in blue crackling mists. It is hard to make out his face at first. But when I go closer I can see it clearly. His hair is red but the blue drains the color out of it. He is so tall that I have to look up. He doesn't see me, though. He is waiting."

She breaks off.

Yeah, she is describing him quite well.

"Is that the end?"

She shakes her head.

"So what happens?"

"The red fire explodes."

She draws her knees close, a frightened look in her eyes.

"Give me your hand." I hold out my hand to her.

She gives it to me with the trust of a child that has not yet been hurt.

Remembering summer days long ago, when I was a child, I sing a song of old. It is a soft song, a warm song, speaking of good days, of sunny days, of harvests that are plenty and friendships that endure. By the second verse, she's humming with me and by the third she has picked up a few words of the old language.

"You have talent", I tell her when the song ends.

"Are you not scared?" she asks me. But she is calmer now, the song having done what it was meant to do.

"Dreams rarely come to pass as we see them, little one. And even true dreams do not show us everything."

She leans into me, her slender form holding little weight. "Will you sing something else for me?"

I spend the next hour teaching her the nursery songs of my childhood.

She laughs at them more often than not. The educational value that they were supposed to have for me and my siblings is lost on her, unusable for her way of life.

Finally, she crawls completely on my lap and falls asleep.

I stroke her hair softly, for a moment just rejoicing in the fact that she's alive. That there is something that is good and right with the world.

But worry creeps back in.

Maybe her dream wasn't a vision. Maybe it was just a dream. An unusual dream, describing someone she couldn't know in such detail.

Why didn't Puri Daj tell me if the child has her gift? Or does the child have her gift? I see Puri Daj's energy melding into the child. A side-effect? A way to transmit powers?

I feel the blood drain out of my face. If the healing can meld powers from one person to the next… Wouldn't they love that, a way to get their hands on my gift before disposing of me.

I stop myself from that train of thought. Maybe it is a one-time fluke. Maybe she dreamt while Puri Daj's hands were on her.

And Puri Daj's power is obviously not drained. So whatever it is, it was shared, not severed.

Could that even be done? It would be violent, snapping someone's powers like that.

I think back. I didn't concentrate on Puri Daj. Could I feel her powers? Are they a separate part of her being? Something that can be cut like I can tell flesh to separate and knit together newly?

My own power seems intricately woven into my being. Yet so does my hand. It doesn't mean it can't be severed.

Can I ask Puri Daj to let me look? To let me search her energy to find out?

"Hey."

I jump as he climbs up on the wagon next to me.

I breathe a few deep breaths to slowly my heart-rate. Kara shifts in my arms. "You startled me."

"Didn't think I could. New friend?" he asks with a nod at the sleeping girl on my lap.

"New friend", I agree.

"Her mother will be worried."

"Yeah. I should get her home."

"Do you want me to?"

I shake my head. "It's ok."

She's heavier than she looks, when you have to carry her.

The set-up of the wagons is the same as in the last place so at least I don't have to search for the right wagon.

I gently lay her down on her bed, pulling the blanket tight over her small body.

"Dream something nice tonight, little one, you have earned it."

When I come back, he is still sitting on the stairs outside. A small ball of blue fire appears and disappears between his fingers, the power surging and ebbing through the bond with it.

He stops when he notices me.

I know nothing profound to say so I concentrate on the practical. "It's like flexing a muscle. You'll get better at it the more you use it."

"Use it for what?"

"I don't know. Burning things?"

He laughs a bitter laugh: "Now that's going to help my case."

I look around and find a small reasonably dry stick. "Come on, humor me. Let's find out whether the lightning holds some heat."

He shakes his head in exasperation but he complies.

"It doesn't burn you?"

"No."

I hold my own fingers near the blue flashes. No heat is radiating off of them.

Then I hold the stick inside. It explodes in a shower of splinters and sparks and smoke.

"Argh."

The pain is immediate and intense through the bond.

He shakes his hands out.

"Let me see."

Blisters start forming already where the hot splinters have hit him. A few of them are stuck in his flesh.

"Damn it", I get up to get my kit. "Don't move."

I get an oil lamp and pincers.

"It'll hurt."

"It already hurts."

Still, he winces when I start pulling the little missiles out of his hand. A few of them have dug themselves in deep.

"There was force behind the explosion."

"Great, so now we know I can kill my hands if I want to."

I look up at him for a second before bending over my work. "I don't think you quite understand. Making a little ball of lightning is the start, but it's not your power. It's the equivalent of me singing a nursery rhyme."

He doesn't answer.

When my eyes start failing me I use the song to guide me to the final few fragments. I pour the cleaning liquid over his hands and soothe the blisters and burns.

When I'm done, he flexes his fingers. "Feels almost as if nothing had happened."

"Yeah, lucky you." Only of course that shouldn't be the case. He should still be hurting. Because my power is strong, but not like this. I hesitate. "Deadman, your power can bring down whole cities. It is that strong."

"How do you know?"

"I've seen it. She's shown me. I don't think it was you who made the city burn. But it was this power."

He draws his hand back. "Maybe I should just forget that I have it. It would be safer."

I shake my head. "You can't. And it wouldn't." My voice is more agitated than I want it to be, so I continue softer: "When I was young, when my gift was just settling in… When I was angry and wanted to lash out at a nurse or my sister… Sometimes… Sometimes I lashed out and it was more than words. I hurt them."

He says nothing.

"You don't want to do that. Not with this power. You need to control it."

"Because otherwise I'll burn down whole cities?"

"No. Because otherwise you might burn down this clan."

Again, he doesn't answer.

"Deadman?"

He shakes his head. "You should have let me die in the storm."

The wave of despair is so strong that I have to struggle against it to force air into my lungs.

He notices my pain only a heartbeat later when the bond is feeding it back to him. He clears it of his emotions.

"Don't", I say it even though I'm still clenching my teeth. "I want to know."

"I'm hurting you."

I can't negate that so I don't try. "It doesn't matter. You can hurt me all you want. I will always want to know. And I will always save you."

"You shouldn't."

"I don't care."

"You're risking many lives for one that is worth nothing."

"I don't care!" It makes me angry, so angry that he still thinks his life is worth nothing. "A thousand lifetimes and you are the one. The one soul that is bound to me and I to you. I will not let you do this to yourself."

I scream it at him so that the force of my sudden anger blows him backward, the bond literally bending him as if I had punched him.

I lean forward and lay my hand over where I know the scar is on his chest. I let my anger fuel the song, a wild song, untamed and unpredictable.

He screams before he pushes me off, hard.

I bite my tongue and taste the blood in my mouth before I spit it out.

When he puts his hand on his shirt, it comes away red.

I make no effort to slow my heart-rate or to keep the feedback of pain from reentering the bond.

"This is my gift, Deadman. This is my gift if I choose it to be this. And believe me, I can make it hurt a lot more."

"You…"

"It is not evil. Your power. It is not good and it is not evil. It is what you make out of it."

He holds his hand to the wound to keep the blood from dripping when he gets up to go inside.

Only after he's gone does my anger finally subside.

I follow him in a little while later.

He is sitting on the bed. He has dressed the wound using his own skills and a few of my herbs. It is neither deep nor dangerous. I wasn't angry enough for that. Now, I'm just weary. "I will apologize if you want me to. I will also find someplace else to sleep if that is your wish."

"This is your wagon, Bari-chey. You can ask me to leave and I will go. It does not work the other way around."

"Deadman", I'm too exhausted to have this discussion, "I have hurt you. On purpose. To prove my point. Whatever rules bind you, you have a right to be angry. So if you want me to go, just tell me and I will go."

His smile is weary, too. "I do not want you to go. If you teach me a lesson that hurts, it is your right, Bari-chey."

When I only shake my head, he continues. "Not even because of my status. Travelers abhor violence. They cannot risk strife to make their group fall apart. But they use force to punish or to teach if it is necessary. Tamara can slap Rana if she deems it necessary. You can rip open an old wound if you deem it necessary. Both of us, Rana and me, are expected to try to understand the lesson, not to fight back."

"And do you? Do you understand what I wanted to say?"

He nods. "Yes. You are saying that my power does not make me a bad person. That I can choose for what purpose I use it. But Bari-chey, all I want to be in my life is a traveler. A power born from battle makes me even more someone I have only become because all other ways were shut."

"You do not want to be a warrior."

He shrugs: "I am many things that I do not want to be. I will live with this as I do with the rest."

Suddenly anxious, I ask him: "What about being with me? Is that also something you just do because it is your fate to live with things you do not want?"

That gets me something that approaches a smile, if one that is weary and self-conscious: "No, Ghost, no. Puri Daj may say that it is fate that is binding us together, but to me it feels selfish and rebellious. Like something I take just because I want it. Without any regard for the consequences."

"Will you let me heal what I did?" I ask very quietly.

He shakes his head. "No. A lesson that is meant to hurt should hurt."

I have not really expected anything else. Not that I would trust anyone to heal me after pulling a demonstration like that on me. But still, I long to make things better. "Will you let me be close to you at least?"

The moon has barely risen, so I can't see his expression and have to rely on my instincts and on whatever the bond tells me. He wants to draw away, as he always does.

"Please. Let me soothe the pain this way at least."

There is something stirring, quivering at the edge of the bond. Like the lightning, it feels powerful. But I'm fed up with being afraid. "Please. Trust me."

When he still hesitates, I bend forward enough that I can catch his hand. He may not be able to come to me, yet his will is not strong enough to resist when I draw him close.

I let my fingers glide from his hand along the muscles of his arms until they find his shoulder and then the bend of his neck. His short beard softly tickles under my thumb. It feels good to me and so I smile at him.

His eyes are so dark, so serious, so guarded. So beautiful.

I give him no advance warning, just lean forward until my lips brush his.

It makes my heart stumble. I haven't kissed before in this life.

He draws back as he always does, but there's a change here, too. His attention is focused on me in a way I have not been aware of before. His body is tense, his pulse fast and his eyes are following my every movement.

I lean in again, the feeling of his lips against mine too intoxicating to listen to the warning.

He is utterly still for a moment, but then, suddenly, his hand is in my hair and he presses me against his body. I'm taken off guard but I let it happen. His lips part and he forces mine to part with them. Scared, I try to retreat, but he holds me in place.

The kiss turns hard and demanding and before I know it, I find myself under him, crushed by his weight.

I struggle but to no avail. He is so much stronger than me.

So I concentrate on my breathing instead, one lungful of air at a time, while his mouth is still pressing down on mine, forcing me to follow his movements if I want to get air at all.

I have my hands clutched in his hair, holding on or ripping at it, I don't know. With a growl, he bends my hand back, not caring that I'm still holding on to his hair, until my joint hurts too much and I have to let go. The second hand goes even faster and he traps them both, crushing my wrists in one of his big hands.

Using his weight to keep me in place, his other hand starts to rip at my blouse until it comes free from where I had tucked it into my skirt. It finds my skin, finds places no one has ever touched before.

I squirm and squeal and a small scream escapes my mouth, a tiny sound, broken off when his mouth covers mine again as he pushes me down harder.

I feel limp, unable to hold on against this attack. Quietly crying, I do what I perceive is my only other option.

I submit.

Instead of squirming away from him, I arch my back towards him.

Instead of fighting against his mouth, I open my lips willingly.

He doesn't let up and he doesn't get any gentler, but still, the tone of what we're doing changes.

His breath is hot in my face and I suck it in eagerly. His mouth is hard and his tongue is filling me to the point where I can't breathe. It makes my heart beat faster.

He gives my hands free and I sling them around his neck.

He growls when I hold on too tightly and he doesn't have enough room to roam under my shirt.

I give him what he wants, loosening my grip just enough for him to be able to roughly rub my breasts.

I scream again, but it is different this time. The scream itself lower, more guttural. The feeling not one of panic but one of surprise at the feelings his touch elicit.

He shifts his weight away from me and I know I'd have the chance to get away if I wanted. But I find that I don't. Instead I follow his motion, follow him over. He is hiking up my skirts and again a small scream breaks from my lips when his hand finds my thigh.

A kiss, a small kiss, just to know how it feels, was all I had wanted but now I find myself shuddering and shivering under his touch and I know that he won't turn back from what I started.

I let myself fall, fall through time and space even as he finds the wetness between my legs. I know what will follow, know it with the certainty of something that always comes to pass, even though I have never lived it. I give myself to him, crying at the sudden spike of white hot pain as he takes me, but moving with him, not moving away.

A small whimper escapes my throat when I try to sit up afterwards. I'm bruised and sore and bleeding. My wrists are already turning a darker shade against the pale light. I let myself fall back on the bed.

He is snoring beside me, his arm heavily slung about my hips.

I cannot describe what has happened.

I have been in charge all my life. Yes, I defer to others if I have to, to my father, to Puri Daj. But I'm still Princess Eliza.

Not here. Not now. Not while with him.

My heart starts beating harder in my chest again.

No matter what our roles in the outside world, it is abundantly clear that here they don't count. I swallow hard. Submission does not come easy for me.

But then his heavy hand on my hip reminds me of his weight on top of me, his mouth on mine and his body taking me and I know that I'm giving myself freely. I have been his before. I am his again in this lifetime.

Finally, I get up to clean myself up.

He finds me outside, at a small lake, my clothes disregarded, the cool water soothing my pains.

I make no effort to cover myself up.

He wades into the water, stopping a few feet away from me. The mix of emotions coming through the bond dizzies me for a moment. He's confused and worried and feels guilty and at the same time, he is content and feels like the world is right and like I should be naked. Which confuses him all the more.

"I am yours, Deadman", I state what is obvious to me and give him my belated consent with it.

He doesn't answer right away, just looks at me in the moonlight, to the hips in the still, dark water. "You are beautiful."

I blush.

"I didn't want to hurt you."

An echo of the sentence vibrates through the ages. "You never do", I say it with a smile.

"It is only the first time that hurts this much."

He can feel it through the bond, how sore I still am.

"I do not care." I wade the few steps towards him. "I am yours."

He circles his arms around my back. I rest my forehead against his chest.

We have found something that is ages old and brand-new.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Blue fire and red**

In the morning, we are both moving stiffly.

We have washed out our clothes as best as we can in the night but they are still drying. So he makes do without his shirt and I have too few dry underskirts for decency and put on my old leather pants instead.

But every step hurts and so I end up sitting on the board of the wagon, huddled up and not ready to move.

Tamara comes over to hand me some honey-bread. Her eyes hold curiosity when she arrives and I think she wants to ask me something, maybe about her daughter since she spent the evening with me, but her eyes turn suspicious when she sees me cowering and the laundry fluttering in the wind. I'm not sure the blood stains have all washed out, either. Deadman gives her a wide berth while harnessing our horses.

"You alright, Bari-chey?"

I nod. I have slung my scarf tightly around me, covering my skin where the blouse does not. It won't do to have Tamara see the bruises.

"You should be at meal with everyone at night. Not alone here."

"I will remember it", I answer evasively.

She just nods. But then, I am not Rana. There is not much she can do.

We sit in silence for a moment, just watching Deadman get the horses read. While the blood has dried on his chest, every bulge of his muscles, every motion, every time he raises his arms puts a visible strain on the wound.

"It must hurt him", Tamara comments while she watches him lead the horses to their places.

"Yes, it must."

She looks at me curiously. I am faithfully healing every wound they come to me with and she knows my diligence where it concerns him.

"Just a shadow, Tamara. His pain should make no difference to you", I remind her.

She snorts at me, unhappy about both her concern and my calling her on it. She leaves to go back to her own family without asking me whatever it was she wanted to ask.

He's done with the horses and climbs up beside me. He wraps the reins around a wooden knob and then turns to me.

I fidget under his gaze as the silence stretches. "What is it?"

"Show me your wrists."

I feel the urge to hide deeper inside my scarf.

But he holds my gaze and is in no mood to give in.

With a sigh, I stretch out my hands so he can take them. He pushes the fabric of my scarf back to expose my wrists. He turns them palms-up and examines all sides. There is a fire burning inside his eyes that makes me shiver.

"You have offered to me to apologize. Now I ask you. Do I need to apologize?"

My mouth is suddenly dry. The imprints of his fingers are clearly visible in blue and black on my wrists. "No", I whisper.

He lays a finger under my chin, pushes it up until I look into his eyes instead of at my hands.

My heart is beating hard against my chest. Am I scared? Yes, I decide. But at the same time, I have taken this plunge already. "No", I repeat, louder this time.

His gaze drops to my mouth, gives me an instant's warning before he leans forward. His beard is scratching against my skin as he finds my mouth. He takes it slower, is gentler than last time and my lips part willingly.

He doesn't take it any further than that, though. "Wait here."

He gets up but comes back only a minute later. Taking my hands again, he pours ointment on the wrists, then rubs it in in even strokes. His hands are warm and strong and his touch is soothing even though the bruises go deep enough to hurt. But even while it hurts, his fingers on my skin now leave an ache deep inside me. An ache that burns and finds its way from my stomach to the regions below.

"Anyplace else?" he asks.

"Not any place you can rub ointment on." I find the ache harder to ignore than most other physical sensations.

I can't keep it from him, either. A smile curves his mouth, the expression so unexpected that I have to look twice. I don't even remember when I last saw him smile, let alone this deeply.

It makes me shy, so I take the salve out of his hand and busy myself with rubbing it onto his wound. It should sting, but when I look up, he still has the smile on his face as he watches me.

I have always been good at keeping my emotions to myself, but now I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.

As he has done before, he softly pushes my chin up to re-establish eye contact when I look away: "You should not exist, Bari-chey. But I'm glad that you do."

The rumbling and rolling of wagons snaps us out of our private world. He sighs, lets go of me, takes the reins again and we're rolling with the rest.

We ride in silence for a while. The sun is even coming out a bit. After a while, I feel good enough to sit up straight and wrap the scarf around my body so that I can knot its ends behind my back. It looks silly without skirts, but it keeps me warm enough without being stifling.

Suddenly there is a bump and a bang. I turn around to find out the reason and have a girl drop into my arms from the roof. She smiles at me broadly and hugs me.

I hug her back before setting her on the board. "Kara! What are you up to?"

"Visiting you!" she says brightly. Then her eyes turn a shade darker: "You're hurt!"

"This?" I hold up my wrists.

She nods.

"Nah, it's alright." I point towards Deadman: "His chest actually bled and everything. Now that's a real injury."

She turns around and stares at him.

His discomfort is so immediate that I almost start to chuckle.

"You are indeed your Grandmother's kin, you have the same effect on him that she does."

He shoots me a look that I choose to ignore, while Kara is doing her best to imitate her grandmother's snort: "Hrmpf."

This time I laugh out loud.

"What did you do?" she asks him.

He keeps his eyes on the horses.

I lay my arm around her shoulder: "You know the rules, little one."

She looks at me seriously and shakes her head. "I was dead, so the rules don't count."

My face creases with a frown. "Who told you that?"

"Auntie Rana."

Yeah, I guess I could have guessed that. "Honey, you weren't dead. You were very, very sick. But always alive."

"But she said you brought me back from the dead", she insists.

"That is a saying, little one. It doesn't mean you were actually dead."

"He is not actually dead, either", she observes with the clarity of a child.

"No, he is not", I agree with her even though that doesn't really help my argument. "You do know what he is, though."

"A dead man, yes. Only not really dead. He talks to you. And to the horses."

"You have watched us", I conclude and shake my head.

She nods without shame. Sitting in the middle between us, she looks like the queen of a little realm with us as her only subjects. "You are interesting", she says.

"And you should be in bed getting your strength back", it is the only thing I can think of to divert her attention.

"I was in bed for so long! It's boring!"

I smile. I get that. "Well, I guess riding with us on our wagon is still better than running around, so you're welcome to stay."

"Shouldn't you say your wagon not our wagon?" she points out with the determination of a bloodhound.

I groan. This argument is not going well for me. "They are not my rules, little pup, and you know that. You are the Traveler, you should be explaining the rules to me not the other way around."

"Of course I'm a Traveler", she replies as if that says it all. Then she turns back to Deadman. "I've been dreaming of you. Again."

She waits for his reaction but he keeps his eyes stoically forward.

Her voice is more urgent when she continues. "You're the blue fire. You need to be vigilant. Because of the red fire. And the one who's making it."

This time he does turn around, his eyebrows undecided whether they want to shoot up in question or knot together in a frown.

"He's got a mask on so I can't see his face. But his hair is dark. And he is as big as you."

"You have dreamt this tonight?" I ask.

She nods.

Not a one-time fluke then. Darn.

But she's still talking to Deadman: "He wants to hurt you." She struggles to find the right words: "I think he wants to hurt everyone. But you the most."

He just bites his lips and shrugs.

"Please", as small as she is, she is deadly serious. "Please listen."

"We're going to watch out for this, little one", I assure her. "A dark haired man who wants to hurt Deadman."

She looks up at me doubtfully, but then finally nods, satisfied that her warning made it through. "What did he do?" she asks again, pointing at Deadman's chest.

"Umm", I don't know what to answer.

"I got taught a lesson", he gives her no more than a sideways glance.

"But you're grown-up." She catches herself and turns to me. "But he's grown-up."

I see the small smile that is curving the corner of his mouth. "Doesn't mean I don't have to learn anymore."

I smile, too. Another loop-hole. As long as she's not talking to him directly, he can pretend he's talking to thin air. No rules broken. Technically, anyway.

"Rana's got a big bruise, too. Everyone is learning things that hurt", she frowns. "Did you learn something, too?" she asks me.

I try to keep my voice level. "Yes."

"What did you learn?" She traces the outline of the bruises on my wrists.

I look up at him but I don't have any words. Not any that I would tell a child, anyway.

He helps me out of my predicament: "I learned that the blue fire is a part of me. I can ignore it if I choose to, but it doesn't make it less a part of me."

She ponders this, then nods.

I nod, too. He has given me an idea to phrase things in a way that she can understand. "I learned almost the same, only not about my gift. My gift has been mine for a long time. Now I know that Deadman belongs to me, too, and I to him."

"That's not something new", she frowns. "I knew that already."

I follow my impulse and hug her. "I think sometimes you are smarter than we are, little pup. We need a little longer to figure things out."

I look up at him again. The smile in his eyes is back.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Being a part of a whole**

"Come with me", I ask him at night. I have put my skirts back on, the underskirts nice and dry now.

Kara has run ahead but she is expecting me to sit next to her at dinner.

"It is better that I don't, Bari-chey. I do not want to cause trouble."

"Because of Rana?" I ask him.

He doesn't answer but his expression says it all.

"Because of me? But they know we've been traveling together!"

"Bari-chey", he sighs. "I cannot be what I want to be for you. Not to them, anyway. And I cannot bear to sit to the side and watch you all night, not allowed to be closer. Or to argue my side."

I'm too stunned to know what to answer.

"Because you know that they will argue and they will counsel you to leave me behind. Especially when they see… I'm not a patient man, Ghost. I have a temper. I have learned to take a good many things. But that does not mean I will be able to sit idly by and take it when it concerns you."

Remembering my encounter with the rider, I nod. "Then let's not give them the chance. Let's be open about this. About us."

"Open?"

"I'm not ashamed of us."

He shakes his head vigorously. "You might not be. But it goes against everything they value. Their young men and women do not mix. They marry."

I laugh. "I doubt that my father would be very happy about us, either." Then, serious again: "I don't care."

"I cannot make this right. I cannot make this honest. I don't exist. Even if you weren't," there is an audible pause as if the word didn't want to leave his lips, "the crown-princess, I couldn't take you for my wife."

"Your wife?" I think I haven't been quite as flabbergasted in the whole time since I fled the palace.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to presume you would want that." He immediately takes my reaction as rejection.

"Just come with me." I take his hand, lacing my fingers through his so that it isn't easy to get rid of me. "Please."

When he still doesn't move I stand on tiptoes and give him a soft kiss. His beard tickles instead of scratching when the touch is only light.

Something like despair pierces the bond again but he nods. "Lead the way then, Bari-chey, and I will try."

He wants to let go of me as soon as we reach the circle of the fires, but I will have none of that. I'm ready enough to follow his lead when we're alone. But when the task is handling a clan of Travelers, I'm not going to let him get away this easily.

His unease is so over-powering that it takes all of my willpower to just keep walking. I can feel the gazes following us, even though they look away when I look at them directly. I'm glad when we reach the cooking fire. I take the first bowl that Evelyn hands me and give it to him. The second one I keep.

"Thank you, Evelyn."

She just nods, her eyebrows drawn in a frown.

"Over here!" Kara's high voice carries effortlessly.

"Bari-chey, don't make a mess. Just let me go", he warns me under his breath.

But I do not listen. Not this time. Instead I drag him over to the smaller fire where Kara sits next to her mother and Rana.

I choose a spot where no one is directly behind us. They are supposed to avoid even his shadow.

Then I let myself sink to the ground. I never let go of his hand, so he has only the choice to rip his hand out of mine, or to slide down next to me.

He chooses the latter.

I sit so that my back touches his leg.

"Uncle Sergey says we're going to be in a town tomorrow!" Kara is oblivious, or at least pretends to be, to the tension that has spread around us.

"Is that a good thing?"

Tamara nods, her eyes still hard and suspicious, but her voice civil enough: "We need food. Food only comes with work. Will you help?"

I nod: "You can bring the people who need a healer. But only common folk, no noblemen. And I will not set foot inside the city walls."

She doesn't ask for my reasons, just nods.

A violin starts up and is joined by a flute and a tambourine.

I smile and start tapping the rhythm on my knee. But when I see Tamara's eyes coming to rest on my hands, I quickly stop. I don't want any discussions. Instead, I make sure that she's looking at me and then lean back into him.

I know I'm provoking them. But I want to settle this now.

His tension increases. He knows I'm doing this on purpose. Still, he lays his arms on my hips and draws me close enough that I can rest comfortably against his chest.

"Disgusting. I'll eat someplace else", Rana gets up in a huff and stomps off.

Tamara is less easily shaken, but she grumbles something inaudible under her breath and averts her eyes. There is no way to look at me without looking at him now.

Only Kara is undisturbed. "Do you think it's going to be a pretty city? Can I go see it, daj?"

"We'll see", Tamara says gruffly.

"Oh please, daj, please!"

"It is not proper for a child to argue!" But while she snaps at her, she is really angry at me not at her, so she lays her arm around her daughter even while she's scolding. The fear of losing her is still seared deep into her bones.

"Mamutschka…"

"Tsk. Better go run, fetch us something to drink. We'll see tomorrow."

Grumblingly, Kara gets up.

I follow her slender form as she's weaving through the crowds. It is always her, her mother and her grandmother and Rana. There are no men attached to either of them.

"Tamara?" I ask. "What happened to Kara's father?"

A frown crosses her face when she has to look at us. She studies Deadman's arms around my hips for a moment. But finally she shrugs. "Dead man."

That gets my attention. Is he actually dead or shunned? "I'm sorry."

She shrugs again: "It is as it is."

Either way, she has lost her husband and all of her children but one. "You're a very strong woman, Tamara."

She just snorts.

We settle into silence, even after Kara is back. The long day was exhausting for her and she is falling asleep in her mother's arms fast.

I am tired, too, but for once I'm also content in the company of the whole group. His arms are warm around me and he is resting his chin on top of my head. The music has changed to slow tunes, the violin crying unshed tears of dark nights and heartbreaks. I hide my hands in his. He draws me closer, his discomfort with our situation forgotten for now.

I wake with a start.

"It's alright, Bari-chey, it's alright."

I stop struggling when I come to.

"You fell asleep. I'm just bringing you home."

He is carrying me, his big arms securely under my torso and legs, my face still warm where it had been resting against his chest. "Thank you", I mumble.

"Always, Bari-chey, always."

When I wake up the next time, I'm trapped. I need to open my eyes to find the reason. He's drawn me close to his side, his arm covering mine and his leg sprawling over me.

Weirdly, as soon as I know why I'm trapped it stops feeling like a trap. I wriggle around so that I can let my fingers trail over his chest, over the short soft hair, over the ribs that are covered under a layer of muscles but are more pronounced here where we don't get enough food than they have been when he was working for the noblemen. Not that I touched his chest then. Apart from for the healing. Trailing further down towards his navel, I lose a bit of my confidence but the soft flesh is too tempting.

"Stop", he catches my hand, harsher than he had to.

His breathing is ragged and I haven't even noticed him waking up. Too engulfed I guess. "I'm sorry."

He exhales deeply. "No need."

When he notices the question in my eyes, he attempts a smile but it turns out edgy. "I don't want to hurt you. But I also don't know how much I can take."

I need a moment before I get his meaning. "I… I would not say no", I blush. I'm not good at this, eternal life-times spent together or not.

That elicits a small groan: "You are not making this any easier, Bari-chey." He softens the words with a caress, though.

"I'm sorry", I repeat. "It's just that I… I have no idea about any of this."

"Me, either", he replies.

That didn't seem so yesterday. "Liar."

He chuckles. "That isn't what I meant."

"What did you mean then?"

He hesitates. "It isn't pretty, Bari-chey."

"Tell me."

"You know what I am. You know that I…" he breaks off.

"No friendship, no companionship, a cold and miserable life…" I remember the things he said in the beginning.

"It is hard to bear some nights. So you take what solace is available."

I nod. I'm aware of the women travelling with the armies, aware of the streets on the outskirts of the cities that respectable women don't ever go. I have never given them a second thought before now.

"That is what I know. So no, I have no idea about this, either."

Instead of an answer I free my hand from his and lay it back on his chest. His heart beats steadily and to its own rhythm. "It's like a song, a heartbeat."

"Ghost?"

"Will you call me Eliza?" I ask him.

"No", he shakes his head.

"Why not?"

"Because Eliza cannot be here. She can never be together with me. Ghost can. And I will take advantage of that as long as it's possible."

I want to tell him that he's wrong. That a crown-princess is just a human like any other. But I hear my father's scolding voice in my mind and I can't get out the words. "I wish I could be Eliza for you", I finally whisper.

He softly strokes my hair. "And I wish, I could have a name for you. But we both can't change who we are."

"You can be reborn", I remember what Puri Daj said.

He shakes his head. "I don't know how. I have never even heard that it's possible. You'll have to take me as I am."

His voice is soft and resolute. But I can't help it, I can't give up as easily as he does: "We'll ask her."

When he stays silent, I change it to: "I'll ask her. Whether you want it or not."

He chuckles softly: "I didn't expect anything different."

I give him a playful slap, careful that it lands on unbroken skin.

He laughs, a deep rumbling sound that I can feel vibrate through my fingers when I lay my hand on his stomach. It makes me insanely happy to hear him laugh.

"Kiss me", I ask him and he obliges.

It seems to me that when his lips meet mine, it is still night and the world around us dark, but when our lips part, dawn has already lightened up the room. I hide my head at his neck. It is almost time to get up.

"We have some time, Bari-chey. Some time before whatever it is that has to come to pass will come to pass."

"I was just thinking about getting up right now, not about the whole future."

He chuckles again. "We have some time there also."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Oaktown**

We're quiet and tense when the wagons roll from their small path onto a bigger way and riders and other carriages start showing up. We're close to town now.

"The riders have been going ahead, talking to the city authority. It doesn't do to come unannounced to any city."

"Uncle Sergey's task", I say.

"Yes. If they are lucky, they have also secured a good spot for the wagons and a few places where hired hands are needed. Otherwise, it's going to be even less food."

"Oaktown", I wreck my brain to dig up the lessons from my past, "Baron Helmsley. Has a passion for hunting and big-busted women."

He shoots me a look.

I shrug: "A king only has so much influence. The more you know about your noblemen, the better you can control them. But yes, being caught hunting in Helmsley's forests will get you to the gallows fast."

He shakes his head: "Honestly? That is what they're teaching a crown-princess? What kind of women the noblemen prefer?"

"Please don't say that word. Not in the vicinity of a city. Baron Helmsley is hungry for power. He wouldn't hesitate selling me back. And I mean selling me back, not just handing me over."

"I wouldn't let him. They wouldn't let him." He doesn't even change the infliction of his voice.

"He's got soldiers."

"You got a people."

"A peaceful people. Who'd get slaughtered on my account."

"Not if I can help it."

His eyes on the horses, his tension clear in every of his muscles, he looks every inch the warrior he doesn't want to be.

I shake my head: "Then you better learn how to use your gift fast."

I haven't been to Oaktown before. It's not the only town in Helmsley's barony and he lives in a castle and not here. Still, it makes me uneasy. He's considerably higher up in the ranks than the noblemen we've been staying with in the winter.

The location for the wagons is a meadow just outside town. The main road is going by and I can see the roofs of the houses behind the wooden wall which circles the town.

I go against the customs of the clan and wrap my hair into a tight bun. Then I wrap the scarf around my head, making sure that it is tied so that it shades my face. It is the fashion of the married women in the South, and effectively, it keeps people from noticing that my skin tone is lighter than that of the other Travelers.

I keep in the shade of the wagons, watching the riders disappear behind the city walls. There are two guard posts, each manned with three men with lances and swords. A sturdy gate that will be closed at night. And a steady stream of folk coming in and out of the city. It is market day, I gather, as everyone seems to have wares on their carriages.

An eternity later, the riders come back. What little I can tell from their faces, things have not gone well. A knot is starting to form in my stomach.

I deliberate whether I want to run but the fields are clear and offer no hiding places for half a mile to each side. I can stay inside the circle of wagons to hide from the townsfolk, but I can do nothing to hide from the Travelers.

"They are asking for you", it is Tamara who shows up next to me.

The bad feeling in my stomach intensifies.

Puri Daj is sitting in the middle of the tent, Sergey to her right and the other riders in a loose circle around them.

I nod a greeting but keep quiet.

"The governor's wife is lying in childbirth. It is going ill. It has been a day and a half and no progress. The midwife is helpless and the mother getting weaker with every passing hour. The governor sees it as a bad omen that we come at a time when his wife is on the brink of dying." Sergey's voice is matter-of-factly but his eyes are too hard for actual calm. "If she dies, he will not allow us to stay. Or he might do worse."

"You want me to go." My own words make me cringe.

"Yes", Sergey nods. "We need this city. We need to earn. You need to save her."

I look at Puri Daj, but though she holds my gaze, she doesn't come to my help. I am an outsider after all, and her clan is her priority.

"Not without him." It is how I braved the noblemen before. It is the only way I'm going to do it again.

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course your husband will not let you go into a strange city alone", Puri Daj says in her no-nonsense-voice, the emphasis clearly on the word that is a lie.

Sergey gives her a sour look but he nods. "Alright. Not without him."

"And Tamara will come, too. She can help. Guys are no good with childbirth. Have to wait outside the door. But Tamara good with blood. And with people."

"Better hurry", Sergey's face is dark.

We are a sullen little procession that goes back inside the gate.

I keep my eyes downcast.

I'm carrying a basket with my medical kit and some fresh linens and Deadman keeps his arm around me tightly.

Tamara has her fists balled up in her skirts, no more comfortable than me, though for other reasons.

"I bring the healer I spoke of", Sergey's voice is gruff as he talks to the governor's guards.

We are ushered inside.

The governor wants to speak to me before letting me enter his wife's chamber.

I keep my eyes on the floor, even attempt a clumsy curtsy as he enters the room.

"You are the healer?" he asks me.

His voice is dark and full of worry. He doesn't sound snide enough to be one of Helmsley's guys.

A quick glance through my lashes shows a blonde, young man. I do not remember him, but then, years have passed. I would have been a girl and he would have been a boy.

"Yes, M'lord", I say in a timid voice, attempting an accent that is not mine.

"You have the gift?"

"Yes, M'lord."

"You know what happens to people who lie to me?"

Immediately, Deadman is half a step in front of me, but the Governor hasn't spoken to me, he has spoken to Sergey.

"I do not lie", Sergey replies evenly, but the sudden tightening of his shoulder muscles speaks louder than his words.

"M'lord, let me and my sister attend to your wife. Every heartbeat might count." I notice that I have been too bold and add: "If it should suit your wishes."

He looks at my curiously but then he nods.

"Please follow me", a handmaiden comes to lead the way.

"No, not you", the Governor stops Deadman as he wants to follow me. "Only the women."

He growls, very low, but loud enough to hear.

He will get us in trouble. I turn around to him, locking eyes with him for a heartbeat before resuming my shy posture. "Thank you, my husband. But it's alright."

Hesitantly, he lets go of me.

We hear the screaming long before we reach her chamber. I'm prepared for the worst and I need to be. We haven't come a second too soon.

I drop the shy act. It's too much hassle. "Get everyone out of here", I tell Tamara.

She immediately starts by pushing the handmaiden back out of the door.

There are three more young women in the room, one is holding the Lady's hand, the others are crying in a corner. And there is an older woman who is wiping the blood between the Lady's legs with a towel.

"Out", I say to the girls. They need a shove from Tamara to obey, though.

"You are the midwife?" I ask the grey-haired woman.

"I am. But the child is laying wrong and I can't turn it."

I push the sleeves of my blouse back and get rid of the scarf. "You can stay. Tamara, you throw out anyone who comes through that door."

"Gladly", she nods.

"My Lady", I address the patient on the bed, "can you hear me?"

Her brow is glistening with sweat but her cheeks are colorless and grey. Before her eyes can focus on me, the next contraction seizes her and she screams in agony. But it is a weak sound, weaker than it should be.

"Don't push. Don't push right now, save your strength", I command.

I push up her dress beyond the knees where it had been and up above her stomach. The midwife looks at me as if I've gone mad. But decency is the least of my worries right now. I need to be as close as I can, have as much skin contact as I can. Precision is necessary. And I need her awake.

"I will see what I can do, my Lady, but I fear I cannot ease your pains. I need you to stay with me."

She sobs now that the contraction has passed but even that is weak.

"Tamara, give her some water. You, midwife, stay where you are."

I contemplate my next steps while Tamara is trying to get some water into the woman's mouth. I do not have much experience with childbirth. It isn't exactly something that you train for in the palace. My father wanted me to heal his soldiers, not their wives.

But I remember a song. A song that should be sung by two voices. A song that can feel two beings at once. It is the best hope I have. So I lay my hands on her stomach, to the left and right of the babe in her womb and I sing the song as well as I can on my own. I sing to the child more than to its mother and with every verse the image gets clearer. The child is in pain and frightened, the comfortable blackness replaced with screaming agony. It doesn't know what to do, it just knows that it wants the agony to stop. It is a boy. And he lies on his side instead of with his head forward as he should.

I move my hands to the side where the head needs to turn and change the song. I calm the frightened child and I implore his help. I sing the boy to me, tell him to come to where my voice vibrates through the layers of skin, to where my warmth guides him.

For the longest moment, nothing happens at all. But then, slowly, ever so slowly, there is a change. The child squirms and turns. A contraction shakes the mother's body but I don't waver and the child doesn't, either.

And then, after a breathless final moment, the effort straining both him and me, the little boy is where he is supposed to be. I sing him praise and let the song taper out as the next contraction starts.

"Now", I tell the mother. "Now take all that you have in you and push."

She screams but she pushes.

I start a new song, one that is helping the mother. The pain coursing through her and me is almost unbearable. But every push moves the child forward a little. I keep singing and probing, now alternating between the child and his mother. I'm not asking the little one for help anymore, he has given all that he can. Instead I give him some of my energy to balance and stabilize. The boy has worked more than most for his own birth and he is almost too exhausted to go on.

So is the mother but I cannot do much for her before the little one isn't born. The energy I give her pours out in a gush of blood and screaming as quickly as I pour it in.

Finally, with one last agonizing push, he slides out into our world, caught safely in the hands of the midwife. Immediately he starts to scream and protest and I know that the boy is safe.

The mother's screams on the other hand have stopped and her breathing is too fast and too shallow, so I focus on her. She has lost so much blood. I sing the song of knitting and try to stench the flood at least now. It is hard work. The birth has ripped her insides to shreds.

Already the world is turning black for single moments before returning to me but I can't stop, not now, not when I'm so close to saving them both.

I find myself on the floor, Tamara's strong arms holding me up. "You alright, Bari-chey?"

I try to focus on her, then on my patient. "I'm alright", I nod. But I see everything like through a veil. Is the mother alright?

There is commotion and suddenly the room is full of people.

The little boy is screaming again. I use him as a guideline and fight the blackness. His father is there and picking him up and he's sitting down next to the mother. She's awake and they are both crying, hugging each other and the child tightly.

"They love each other", I'm so surprised that I say it out loud.

"They do", says a dark voice next to me. "Come on, your work is done."

Strong arms, stronger than Tamara's, lift me up.

"Wait! Wait! You cannot go! What do you need?" The governor jumps up, the child still in his arms.

"She needs rest. I will take her home", Deadman's voice is as unfriendly as I've heard it in a long time.

He carries me out of the room without looking back but the Governor is following us.

"Wait! What can I do for you? Let me feed you! You can't leave right now!"

"Talk to Sergey. What food you would give, he can bring back to share with the clan", Deadman says and walks and the world fades to black again.

When I wake up, it is the smell of chicken soup that brings me to. It sits on a nightstand beside my bed. A nightstand?

A young girl is busying herself with pouring steaming water into a bowl. She dunks a linen towel and wrings it out.

Only when she comes back over to me, does she notice I'm awake. "I'm sorry, m'Lady Healer. I just wanted to wash your face and hands and feed you some soup." She blushes and curtsies.

"Don't", it comes out harsher than intended. My voice is hoarse. I take the cloth from her and wipe the dried blood off of my face and my hands.

She stands ready to take the cloth from me and hand me the soup. I take it from her. It is hot and it smells delicious. She hands me a spoon and I eagerly take the first few bites. It tastes delicious, too, and I'm famished as usual after a healing.

I've gone through half the bowl when I finally feel that there is space enough in my mind for other things, too. "Am I a prisoner?" I ask the girl right out.

"No, no, m'Lady, you are a guest!"

"Where then is my – husband?"

"I don't know. But you are a guest", she insists.

Slower and more deliberately, I eat the next few bites. The last thing I remember is Deadman carrying me out of the room. I doubt that he would have left me here out of his own free will.

I eat the last remnants of the soup and hand the bowl back to her: "Thank you. The food is appreciated."

She smiles.

"So, tell me, am I a guest who is confined to this room?"

Her smile disappears. "The Lord Governor wants to talk to you when you're awake and better."

"Well", I sigh. "I am awake and the food is already making me better. You can tell him that and if he doesn't take too long I will be a good girl and wait for his summons."

Now she's downright shocked at my insolence.

I sigh again. I can forget about the shy Traveler act. "Please", I ask her in a softer voice. "I will be good. I promise. But tell me what happened to my husband." This time, there is no pause before the lie. I could get used to the word.

"He's not here."

"I see that."

"No, I mean, he's not here. Not in the house."

"Did he leave with the others?"

"I couldn't say."

I bite my lip. I won't get anything out of her it seems. "Thank you", I tell her anyway.

She nods and curtsies again, takes the empty bowl and leaves the room.

I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. He isn't nearby, that part is true. I try to go back through the streets in my mind, but no, the direction of the wagons is different than the direction he's at.

I open my feelings to him, a mixture of my stomach being happy about the warm food and confusion about what happened and fear of what might still come and worry about him.

The relief that floods the bond from his side sweeps all of that away, though. He wasn't sure I was still alive. It makes me laugh a little. Stupid man. I can stay alive on my own for a few hours.

How do I play this, Deadman? I ask him in my mind. How do we both get out of this alive and unharmed?

But that, of course, is not how the connection works.

* * *

_Author's Note: Life's a bit stressful right now so updates will be infrequent for a while. To those of you who remember the Summer's Heart times: I'll try to update more frequently than that… (it dropped to once a year at some point if I remember correctly… ahem). _


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: The thing with cliffhangers, dearest reviewers, is that I LOVE them. So, well, they're going to be happening every so often, complain all you want. *evil grin* Anyway, a heartfelt welcome to everyone who has favorited/followed this story and thank you for the lovely reviews! I'm really glad that it isn't just me who likes this story. _

* * *

**Chapter 14: Lord Galloway**

The Governor's study is not a small room, but it is cluttered with books and papers. He sits behind his desk, dipping his pen in an ink bottle, writing, then sanding the words. A quick scan of the room to my relief reveals that there is only a picture of the Helmsleys and a small portrait of my father on the walls. The other faces in the drawings I do not know.

Finally, he looks up. He studies me intensely. I wish the scarf would still hide my face. Since it isn't, I look down at the floor and don't move.

My skin begins to crawl and itch, the longer he just stares at me. But the guards are still blocking the way out.

"I've met a few healers over the years. And a few Travelers", he finally says in a measured voice. "But you puzzle me."

"M'Lord?" If I keep to one word answers, maybe I can still get away with this.

"Every healer I've met was standing tall. Was loud and commanding. None of them hid their faces. Each of them wanted payment. Most of them in advance. Every Traveler I met had a heavy accent. A heavy accent that didn't disappear when talking to the servants. And none of them knew to call me 'm'Lord'. They are a proud folk, they may obey but they do not defer."

So he's smarter than I thought. Alright. I nod and look him in the eyes: "Yes, my Lord. Proud and free, that's what they are. They'll want to collect the payment for my services, too. And if you are honest at all, you will not deny it to them. I have saved both your wife and your child after all." Can't hurt to remind him of that.

A small smile curves his mouth, not unpleasant as such. It is not a cruel smile as I would expect from one of Helmsley's men. "That's better. I feel that we can talk now." He turns to the page behind him: "Bring us some wine, John." Then he beckons me forward: "Please, sit down."

"My Lord", I start a little hesitantly, "is it necessary to have two guards protecting you from me? They are making me a little nervous."

He laughs. "I don't know yet. And as long as I don't know, they are staying."

"So afraid of a girl, my Lord?"

But he shrugs the insolence off: "There is more to you than meets the eye, so I will choose to err on the side of caution."

Alright, so he doesn't have an easy temper. How did this man get into a position like this?

"As you wish, my Lord", I go back to good manners.

"Tell me your name", he demands once I've cautiously placed myself on the stool opposite his armchair.

"Ghost, my Lord", I give him the name of my choosing.

"What kind of game are you playing?" But he still sounds more intrigued than angry.

"What happened to my husband?" I counter his question.

"So he is your husband for real?" he sounds surprised.

"He is my husband", I nod, the lie almost a truth if you count the lifetimes before this one.

"He drew a weapon in my house and threatened both me and my staff. I cannot tolerate that."

My heart sinks. The hot-headed fool. "Whatever he did, my Lord, he did it in defense of me. Please, for the lives I saved for your family, show him mercy", I plead.

He observes me with curiosity. "You are an odd one, aren't you? Brazen as if you're the queen in one moment and pleading with me like a beggar the next."

The page brings the wine but he waves him off and pours the cups himself. He takes a sip but I do not touch my cup. I want my wits about me.

"My Lord…" but I falter. Drawing a weapon against even the staff at my father's court, let alone the family, will get you executed swiftly, unless you have a very good standing. At a minor lord's court, it will likely cost you a good amount of silver, or, failing to provide that, a hand.

"Please, have mercy", I finally beg him again.

"And yet, you are not panicked. You know the punishments and you are weighing your options. So tell me, how does a Traveler come by this knowledge?"

I close my eyes, feeling the bond again. He hasn't moved. But there is no physical pain that I can discern. He hasn't been harmed. Not yet.

"My husband is a Traveler, my Lord, I am not", I finally answer.

"Odd", he repeats.

"But true, my Lord."

Still no menace in his voice or his face. He is truly puzzled. Well, maybe this can go well at least for one of us, if not for both.

"My Lord", I start again, my voice gaining strength as the path I have to take becomes clear, "you love your wife. You would do what you can to save her. I love my husband. I would do what it takes." The next words do not want to leave my mouth, but there's nothing to do about it. "I have no bargain to offer. But my Lord, if you have orders to take the ones with the gift to Baron Helmsley, then by all means, take me. I will go and not give you any trouble. I didn't save your wife and child to risk their lives now. But my husband is nothing to Baron Helmsley. He is yours to deal with. So I beg you, show him mercy. Release him or take him into your service. He is a good fighter. He is a better fighter with two hands attached."

I fall silent. I have said my piece.

His curious observation has turned into an intense stare.

I lower my eyes against it.

"How would you know all this?"

"Please, my Lord", I repeat.

"Get her husband here", he commands the guard.

"My Lord? Is it wise…?" the guard begins.

"Go. Both of you. It'll need the two of you to restrain him", he interrupts harshly.

I shake my head after the two guards are gone. "My Lord, if you do plan to send me off to Helmsley, this is not a very good idea. You might shackle and restrain him all you want, he is going to put up a fight."

"I'm counting on it", he answers. "Page, leave."

"My Lord!"

"Leave", his voice brooks no argument. When the page is gone, he looks back at me: "Now. Who are you?"

"I cannot tell you."

"You can and you will. If you don't want to be shipped off to Helmsley, that is."

For a second, I allow myself a feeling of relief. I have not misjudged him completely. But the feeling can't last. "No, my Lord. I cannot and I will not. For your own safety as much as for mine."

"You intrigue me, Healer. But intrigue is not enough to risk my life and disobey my Lord and Master. So give me a reason."

That surprises me. "You want to disobey him!" If the situation wasn't quite as precarious, I would laugh. "My Lord, how in the world did you get your position? You are not one of Helmsley's men."

"You know many of Baron Helmsley's men now, do you? Or maybe the Baron himself?" He emphasizes the word Baron.

"I know enough of Helmsley to know that his under-lords are thugs. You are not a thug." I leave the Baron out on purpose yet again.

He laughs: "The Baron does not like me very well, my Lady, that much is true." Then the laughter dies: "I cannot tell you whether it makes me any less a thug."

The word pains him. "You have done things for him that you did not approve of."

"Yes."

"What is your name, my Lord?"

"Lord Andrew Galloway, my Lady."

"Most everyone has to do things their conscience does not approve of, Lord Andrew Galloway. Be it here or in the core of the realm. It does not make you a thug."

"You are from the core then?"

"I am a Traveler's wife, my Lord."

The moment I say it, the door opens and they bring him in. It is a cheap trick, of course, but it confuses the Governor for a moment.

Long enough for me to turn. They haven't been gentle with him, but they haven't roughed him up too badly, either. His hands are shackled behind his back and right now he's not fighting them. He just looks at me with raised eyebrows. I shake my head ever so slightly.

Not slight enough that Lord Galloway doesn't notice, though. "A husband who listens to his wife, a rare sight… Can you talk, Traveler husband of a core Lady?"

Again, Deadman looks at me and I shake my head. No, I haven't told the Governor who I am and I won't.

One of the guards shoves him half a step forwards: "Our Lord commanded you to talk, Traveler."

He just looks at the floor, jaw set tightly.

When the guard raises his fist for a punch, the young lord shakes his head: "Enough." He looks at me again, for a long moment. Then he nods. "I've heard what I needed to hear. Bring them to my carriage. The closed carriage. I will personally accompany them to the castle."

"Yes, m'Lord." The second guard steps forward and grabs my arm.

It takes what willpower I have not to give in to the overwhelming urge to slap the guy. Half of it is Deadman's feeling rushing through the bond but my own feelings are mingled in there somewhere.

"I'll walk peacefully enough, there's no need to hurt me", I hiss at the guard. But I shake my head at Deadman for a third time when he growls at the guard. We stand no chance against all of them, so it's better to wait for our moment and not make a bigger mess right now.

They walk us out of the room and through a long hallway, to the rear of the building. We're brought into a small stone chamber. They attach his shackles to a chain in the wall but leave my hands free. One guard stays at the door, the other leaves. To get the carriage ready I guess.

I take one step towards Deadman and already a lance is stopping me. "No, stay to your side."

"Can I ask him whether he's alright at least?"

"I'd rather you'd not."

"He is my husband for God's sake!"

"I'm alright", Deadman cuts our argument short.

I sigh a relieved sigh. "You foolish man." But I smile to soften the words.

"I'm not sorry for trying to get us out of here", he shrugs, "though it could have gone better."

"No more talking", the guard is getting annoyed with us.

Since he's the one with the lance and the sword, I comply and let myself sink to the stone floor. There isn't much else to do. We'll have to deal with this one problem at a time. I do not look forward to the problem that is Baron Helmsley, though.

But my brooding is cut short. An older fellow with a grey beard and the rank of a commander shows up. "I'll take the prisoner and his wife from here. You are relieved."

He takes the key ring from the other guard and unfastens the chain from the shackles. He takes Deadman's arm and beckons me to follow him, too.

Silently, we mount the carriage. His Lordship is already inside.

"Let's go", he commands and the carriage starts rolling.

For a while, we drive in silence. Every so often, Lord Galloway looks out of the windows. When we have passed the city walls, he draws the curtains.

"Turn your back", the commander of the guard tells Deadman. He hesitates for a second, but then obeys.

The locks click and the shackles are off. Deadman rubs the life back into his wrists.

"Keep them. You may want to lose them in a direction you are not going in", the commander says.

I close my eyes for a second as the relief washes over me. He's letting us go after all. "Lord Galloway, I cannot promise you that you will not regret this. I have little power right now. But if I'm ever in a position to pay you back, I will", I tell him.

"My Lady, you have saved my wife and my son. No matter who you are, there is no way I will give you to Helmsley. I'll have to employ your help to make this seem a flight, though. I fear it would not be good for me or my family to just let you go."

"What about the clan?"

"We'll search them and we'll not find any sign of you. We'll send them on their way. I have already had food sent to them. Payment for your service to my family."

"Thank you."

"I'd advise them, same as you, to make their way off of Baron Helmsley's territory as quickly as they can, though."

"I think they will agree with this."

"I'm sure they will." He looks out of the window. "We're far enough into the woods, I think. Stop the horses!"

We come to a clattering halt.

"I'd be glad if you left the carriage somewhere where it can be collected. It is my only stately transport."

He climbs out of the carriage, the commander and the driver following his example.

The commander takes his sword belt and hands it over to Deadman who buckles it around his waist. Then the commander sighs. "Does not eliminate the need for proof of a fight I fear."

Deadman nods and hits him squarely across the jaw. It is fast enough that the commander doesn't see it coming and hard enough that he can't catch his balance in time. He falls flat on his ass.

The coachman, in exchange for his knife, gets a punch that will leave a black eye.

"Not his Lordship", I hold Deadman back. "We don't want to accidently mar his face. He'd have to search for us in earnest."

Deadman just nods and holds out his hand: "The knife."

Lord Galloway smiles a small smile and shakes his head: "It is not yours I believe." He takes it out of his belt and hands it to me, hilt first.

My Ravenwings knife. How did I not miss that?

I take it and let it disappear fast: "Thank you, my Lord. It means a lot to me that you gave it back."

"My Lady, I would not part you from something so precious. You might have need of it again." He nods at me, then Deadman. "This is good-bye, I think. Men, let's go. It is a long way home. And I feel a little drowsiness coming on. It might be necessary to take a little nap at the edge of the forest before walking on. But we don't want to keep our guests. They need to travel on."

"Thank you. I won't forget it, Lord Galloway." Then I follow Deadman up onto the coachbox.

He takes the reins and we go. We follow the slope of the mountain down until the streams that spring up along the hillside converge. There is no path to speak of anymore and the carriage cannot go forward.

We cut the horses free of the wagon and ride. Through the swamp and then up the hill. In a stony terrain where it will be hard to read the hoof prints, we drop the shackles. Then we double back and go the other direction. We're lucky and the stony terrain drops down right to a river.

In we go and slowly we ride upstream.

Night is already falling, when Deadman stops. "We let the horses go here. Then we need to move on in the water for another half day. The hounds will follow the horses and by the time they find them, our trail will be cold. Can you do that?"

There isn't much choice, so I nod and jump off the horse. We lead them to the other shore and let them go. It is no easy way home for them and we can hope that they will be found only in a day or so.

Then we stumble on. He takes my hand when he notices how much I slip and slide on the stones in my fight against the current. And it is a fight, the skirts billowing around my legs, a dead weight against the motion of the stream, doing nothing to protect me from the cold. Then the hunger sets in, a grumble in my stomach first, then nagging and constant. Finally, when I do not feel my feet at all anymore, all I fight against is the overwhelming wish to just lay down and sleep and not wake up.

But he pushes me forward, step by little step.

The moon rises and still we walk.

The moon reaches its zenith and begins to fall and still we walk.

Then finally, when the first grey of dawn reaches the bottom of the trees, he drags me out of the water.

We're on a little cliff. There are branches that are over-hanging the shore and a little further on, the rock caves into a natural hollow. He sits me down. "Wait here."

Too tired to sit up, I curl into a ball on the cold stones. I should get rid of the wet skirts, but I am too exhausted for that, too.

Waking up stiff and still tired only a little later is no fun. But the smell of roasted meat is in the air.

"Thought that that would wake you up." He looks exhausted, too, but there is a small hare roasting over the fire.

"Should we have a fire?"

He shrugs: "No one around for miles. We better dry ourselves off now when we can."

That makes sense to me. I get up to get out of the underskirts so that they can dry next to the fire. "How did you even start the fire? And get the hare?" We're not big on resources right now.

As an answer, he lets a small ball of blue fire spring from his right hand. It zips through the air before exploding into the cliff face.

This is new. He's learned. "The hare doesn't look exploded."

He shakes his head. "Cause I scared it into a trap, that's why."

We eat with the intensity of starving people and the food is gone too fast and then all there is to do is rest. Since I've already slept some, he lays down first and I stand guard. Or sit guard, rather. And finally, sleep through the guard.

The fire is burned out when I wake up but at least my clothes are dry. It is getting dark already. I shake him slightly and immediately he is up. There is little we can do about the traces our fire will leave behind, but we scatter the ashes and douse water over them, so that at least it will be hard to tell when we were here. Then we walk again.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Back in the wild**

It is disturbing, how long it seems and how lonely and how exhausting, walking all night. For months, we have done nothing but walking when we didn't stay with the noblemen. Now, I'm missing the horses and the laughter of the children and it doesn't seem like a good way of travelling anymore, stumbling through the dark on your own two feet.

I wish they hadn't sent me. But the wife and the child would have died for sure. I guess, it's better to have saved lives, even if it means that your own life took a turn for the miserable.

Apparently, my thoughts are clearer through the bond than I intended them to be, because he waits for me and takes my hand. We walk side by side as long as the path allows it. And he's right of course. We could have lost each other and we didn't. I'm grateful about that at least.

Finally, the first grey of the morning lights the way. We take a path that leads deeper into the forest. With a bit of luck, there will be blueberries and wild strawberries and maybe another hare to roast.

When we reach a secluded spot, with a small lake next to a stand of conifers, he let's go of my hand. "We can stay here and rest. We're far enough away that they won't catch us if we don't get stupid."

"We can hope that Helmsley won't even know yet. Lord Galloway is going to drag this out as long as he can."

"He knows you're highborn. Isn't that dangerous?"

I shrug. "He hates Helmsley. And I think he has a conscience. If nothing else about this is good, it is good to know that if need be, there might be one nobleman who'll make an ally. If Helmsley doesn't kill him before then, that is."

Deadman just nods. He has no compassion for the Governor. "So, where do we go from here?" he asks me instead.

We've walked northeast, best as I can tell. "Can we find our way back to the clan?"

"Only if you'd risk their lives."

"You know that I wouldn't."

"Then we can't."

I nod. It is a pity, though. There was much to learn from Puri Daj and I already miss Kara. I hope they are ok. "Baron Helmsley's lands are vast. He has inherited most of them from his wife. It's been a long time since I last saw a map. But if I remember correctly, we're out of his lands the fastest if we go to the East."

"Whose lands are there?"

I sigh. That's the problem about this plan. "Earl Gravenport's. My uncle's."

He thinks about this before asking: "Your uncle, was he involved in your brother's death?"

I shake my head: "No. He's my mother's brother. He wouldn't profit from his death or mine."

He nods slowly. "But you wouldn't want him to know you're alive, either?"

"I haven't given it a thought. After my father re-married, I didn't exactly have much contact with my mother's family. My step-mother would discourage it." I keep my voice and the bond carefully void of emotions. That alone gives him enough of a hint that something is wrong.

"Alright", he nods again. "It still sounds like we should rather risk him than Helmsley."

That, I agree with. "So we go on to the East."

"Not before we have eaten and are rested."

"Yes." Another thing I agree with.

He sets out to hunt and I use my skirts to gather what fruit I can find in them. It is too early in the year for mushrooms, but I find a few edible roots that we can grill. Grill, because we have no pots or bowls. Yes, life has taken a turn to the miserable.

"We need supplies. Bowls. Spoons. A water skin", I tell him when he comes back. We have what he had in his pockets. Plus the sword and the knives. It's barely the essentials, even though it will likely get us through to the next town.

"And you need different skirts. Your Traveler's clothes are too conspicuous."

I wish Galloway had given me back my medical kit. There was linen in there, and needles and string and scissors. Invaluable in this situation. "Not much I can do about it right now, can I?" I growl.

He raises his eye-brows at my tone. "Why are you starting a fight with me, Ghost?"

I shake my head to dispel the foul mood. But under the anger is only sadness. "I miss them, Deadman. I miss them already." I'm much rather angry than sad.

The pheasant he hunted still in his hand, he lets himself sink to his knees next to me but his voice is still carefully neutral. "Didn't take you long to get attached."

I take the bird from him to set to plucking it. "I don't know how you do it. How you can move on as if nothing has happened."

A hard edge creeps into the bond. "You know that's not true. So you are saying it to hurt me. Why do you want to hurt me?"

I keep ripping at the feathers, putting more force into it than strictly necessary.

"Look at me, Ghost."

I close my eyes and ears against the command, I do not want to deal with this.

But he touches my face, softly, without pressure, and I can't help it, I look up at him and my eyes are swimming with water.

He leans in and gives me a kiss, slow and deliberate.

The pheasant sinks from my hand and I can't hold back the tears. He draws me close to let me cry.

But I can't stand it, can't stand the compassion, the commiseration, when I do not want to feel this sad and small. When I want to feel angry and alive and tall. So I grab a fistful of his shirt and stretch myself up while drawing him down. He knows what I want and takes my face in his hands and kisses me.

I kiss him back eagerly, the anger and fear and despair of the past few days fueling a response that takes him off guard. He keeps steady like a rock, not fighting me off but not giving in to the attack, either. I bite, scratch and pull my way through getting rid of his shirt.

Only when I draw blood does it get too much for him and he turns me on my back, trapping me beneath him. I fight back, punch him hard even though I am sobbing now, all the nervous energy fighting for his attention, for him to take control away from me so that I can give up. So that I do not have to carry this weight of how to go on anymore.

He doesn't fall for the ruse, though, this time doesn't give me what I want. Instead he just stays still and lets me hit him. He lets me work out all my energy, safe under his body and in the circle of his arms.

Finally, when I can't fight anymore and just cry and hold onto him, he kisses me again, gentle now and without keeping me down. He caresses my skin, my shoulders, my stomach, my breasts. His touch melts my defenses, melts all the anger away that always is my last defense to keep me safe. I taste the salt on my lips and his, mingled with the sweet iron taste of the blood that I drew and I crave to touch him, to connect with him deeper than ever before.

He takes me slowly and gently, surprising us both I think, his eyes always focused on mine. My tears dry as the motion of his body takes me over. My breathing calms and falls in synch with his. A song of its own, spreading out from where our bodies meet, mingling with the resonance and deepening the bond, builds inside me, stronger and stranger than anything I have felt before.

His eyes shine as he feels the emotion mirrored back to him and quicker than I know his mouth is back on mine, a passionate kiss that takes up the motion of our bodies, increases it, intensifies it, until the feeling gets too strong to be contained inside and erupts.

It leaves me panting and weak, barely able to cling on when he follows me on the same path.

Afterwards, we lie beside each other, still holding each other close. There is a peace in me that I haven't felt before.

He strokes my hair, softly, tenderly.

I look up at him. "I love you, Deadman."

It doesn't need saying and yet it needs saying because I have never felt it this clearly before.

He doesn't answer. But he doesn't hide his feelings in the bond and whether he can say it or not, he loves me, too.

The next day, we are walking again. We keep to the forest tracks. All is quiet until the afternoon, when the rumbling and clattering of a wagon from behind startles us out of our peace. Someone else is taking the back road.

Deadman stops and pushes me behind him as the wagon comes into view.

It is a Traveler's wagon, though in worse repair than most. The clattering and jingling comes from the things hanging from every nook and crack. A peddler.

He stops ten feet away and observes us quietly for a moment. Takes in the Travelers' clothes, my dark brown hair and Deadman's ginger, but also the sword at Deadman's side. Then a wide, not entirely genuine smile spreads on his face: "Good afternoon, dear friends! What brings you to the back part of these woods all alone?"

Deadman has placed one hand on the hilt of his sword and is not moving an inch.

"Have you lost your clan? Don't let them catch you with that thing", he points at the sword.

It seems simpler to me not to give him any indication of who we are. But I can't help but eye his wares. There is everything we need. "If you don't mind me asking, peddler, who are you and why are you travelling alone?"

He is surprised that it is me talking, not Deadman. We have the Travelers' customs all upside down, me dealing with the outside world, him being in charge when it is just us.

With a grand gesture and a flourishing bow, the peddler jumps down from his coach board and answers: "I am the king of pots and cutlery, the lord of new shoes and old, the baron of news and rumors from all over the world. What more do you need to know?"

"I would know why you are talking to us as if we can trust you, if you are alone and have no name", Deadman's voice is so dark that it has almost no tone.

The peddler frowns and gone is his flourish. He backs up a step towards his wagon: "There is no need to be unfriendly. In times like these, it was worth the try. I mean, look at you, carrying a sword. What does that say about you?"

"I know how to use it, too." There is a clear warning in his voice.

But I have heard something else in the answer: "Times like these? What times like these?"

The peddler turns to me: "You haven't heard? Where the hell have you been?" But when Deadman takes a step towards him, he quickly relents: "Alright, alright. Two border towns have been burned down. Gossip says it was witchcraft. That's bullshit if you ask me. What it definitely was, is Travelers, though. Earl Gravenport has captured the ones who are responsible. I'm on my way to Graventown right now. For the executions. Always good business, executions."

Travelers burning down towns? Kara's voice whispers a warning about red fire in my ear. "Do you know who they are? The ones they've captured?" I ask him.

"What is it to you? Is it your clan that burns down cities?"

"No descriptions? No stories? Aren't you the king of news from all over the country?"

Now he laughs, his tension slowly evaporating since we're still talking and not attacking him: "Alright, you got me. Rumor has it they caught five men. Their leader is a monster without a face. Or so they say."

"Without a face or with a mask?"

Now his eyebrows rise: "Looks like you know the guy after all."

I shake my head. "We don't. But we've heard rumors, too. Graventown is on our route. So it is good to know about this. Thank you, peddler."

"On your route, huh?" The peddler gives me a weighing stare.

I ignore it and instead point at his wares: "Are you willing to sell to us?"

"Do you have money to buy?"

"Money, no. But things to trade."

He laughs: "Are you going to trade in that sword? I can't sell it, so don't bother." But then he looks Deadman up and down: "I could use a hired sword, though. Too many people about at executions. Need to protect my wares." His smile turns broader as he turns to me: "And a pretty face and a bit of warm flesh are always welcome, dear."

"Deadman, don't!"

But it is too late. He has stepped forward and squarely punched him before the peddler can even react. "Never talk to her like that again!"

Coughing and wheezing, the peddler comes back to his feet. A dangerous glint has entered his eyes. "Deadman, huh? So you are no better than me. You will want to keep that in mind." Suddenly there is a knife in the peddler's hand.

"Stop it, both of you! Isn't it enough that the whole world is against us? Do you have to fight each other, too?"

"He can't be trusted." They say it almost simultaneously.

I shake my head and turn to Deadman: "But he has supplies. And we need supplies. And he needs someone to protect his wares. Everyone wins, far as I see it."

It seems to make sense to him, whether he likes it or not. He still threatens the peddler: "If you touch her just once, you're dead."

Seeing Deadman's fighting stance slacken, the peddler lets the knife sink. "Point taken."

"Thank you." I breathe sigh of relief. Leaving bodies behind, even if it is a lone peddler, is dangerous business. Especially right now. "You wouldn't by any chance have some more local clothes for me, would you?" I ask the peddler.

It takes some deliberation and a few animated discussions, but we find a deal we're all comfortable with. We're going to stay with the peddler until after the executions. Deadman will take care of protecting the wares and the peddler himself. In return, the peddler gives us what we need in clothes and daily tools. I will help where I can but the peddler believes in the Travelers' ways. Since Deadman has made it clear that I am his, I am now a married woman in his eyes, and hence not the one to interact with the outside world.

It takes some sifting through his wares, too, to find what we need in clothes. But being a Traveler without a clan is dangerous and the peddler knows it, too. He doesn't ask us where we've been or why we're dressed in traditional garb. He might be less strict in his believes than Deadman, but underneath his flourishing exterior, his face is hard and reserved.

We find a simple dress for me, a long-sleeved light brown undergarment with a dark green tunic that is fastened up at the sides to go on top. With my hair in a braid and a woolen scarf around my shoulders, I look no different than any other woman in these territories. Deadman finds bits and pieces of leather armor. Nothing as sturdy as the armor he left behind, but it will do.

Backpacks and water skins and bowls and all the other small things are less trouble. We pick out what we need. The peddler watches us like a hawk, haggling about the necessity of every small item. I mainly just take what we need anyway and he doesn't stop me.

Finally, we travel on. The peddler walks to the left of the horse while we walk to the right. The two guys are still eyeing each other warily every so often but most of the time they both stare straight ahead, ignoring each other.

I am wary of the peddler, too. I have no way to look inside him and see what he is feeling, but I doubt that I'll find the overwhelming pain and hard resolve that Deadman carries. And that, harsh as it is, is what fuels his loyalty. I fear the peddler is loyal strictly to himself.

Still, there is a strength in numbers and an advantage to having ourselves a travel companion. They are looking for two Travelers on the run, not for a peddler and his hired help.

By nightfall, we are at the edge of the forest and in range of the main road that goes east.

"Let us rest here for the night. I do not want to be on the road in the dark."

I'd personally much rather be travelling by night, but I understand his point of view. So I nod.

The peddler sets to building a small fire. "Let me guess, you don't have any food, either?"

"He can hunt", I say.

"I'm not leaving you alone with him for even a moment!" Deadman shakes his head.

The peddler just rolls his eyes. "Will he cut the head off of the hare with his sword?" he mocks.

I sigh. "I'll go see what I can find in roots and berries."

"Don't go too far", Deadman's immediately worried.

"Come with me then."

The peddler eyes us suspiciously as we go.

But he is not my concern. Once we are out of earshot I turn and ask Deadman: "Should we be taking this road? Kara warned us about this man."

"He's being executed."

"And still." It makes me uneasy. Her visions were clear. "There is danger where we're going."

"Ghost…" He lays his hand on my arm and I become aware of his feelings. They have changed. The pain has diminished, purpose is now the governing force.

"You think there is something about this man. Something that is tied in with you."

"I do not think it, I know it. Even though I cannot explain to you why."

I nod slowly. "Destiny."

He laughs uneasily. "Not the word I'd have used."

But I see us standing above a ruined city, thick clouds of smoke rising, the bitter taste of ashes in my mouth. "We'll face him then, if we have to."

"Ghost?"

"I will not have him ruin my land. I will not have him burn my cities. So we'll face him." It comes out more commanding than intended.

"Eliza", his voice is very quiet.

I can't bring myself to smile. I wanted him to say my name, but I did not want to become Eliza again. It seems that I can't have it all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Graventown**

_A/N: I want to say a heartfelt sorry for not updating so long. I got unexpectedly infected by the Destiel bug. Don't look it up. Seriously. So currently my concentration is, umm, occupied otherwise and Keepers got the short straw. It'll not be like this forever, I promise. _

I hate executions. My father has made me go to each and every one of them since I could walk. When I was too young to understand, all I hated was my brother's hard face and his sour mood afterwards. Later, when I understood what was happening, I turned my eyes away. Then my healing set in and I couldn't even do that anymore, my gift telling me to run to the gallows and help instead of looking away. Maybe I should have. Doing that just once might have spared me the next times.

I shake my head to dispel the past. Deadman has to stay with the wagon so I'm making my own way through the crowds and should be alert to my surroundings. We aren't the only peddlers who have made the way. Other folk have come from near and far to see the spectacle, peasants and royalty alike. There are highborn ladies surrounded by guards weaving their way through the crowds, going after the silks and colorful wools at the better stands. It's only royalty who wear bright colors here. And the hangman and his helpers of course, who are wearing a yellow so bright that it almost hurts my eyes. They are fiddling with the ropes on the gallows, preparing everything for tomorrow.

I watch them for a while. That is not a part of the show that I would usually get to see. The royal family only comes to the main event. There are grandstands to the side, for my Uncle and his family I guess.

My gaze is drawn back to the gallows, though. The wood looks sturdy. So do the ropes. Still, the unease in my stomach does not cease to send little sparks of warning. Things will go wrong here. Horribly wrong.

"Move it, girl!"

I step back as a company of guards clatters past, making their way through the crowd towards the palace. Are they holding the prisoners in the palace? If it is the man Kara has been warning us about, that is a dangerous undertaking.

I follow them in respectful distance. Yes, they are making their way back to the palace. I will my fingers to keep to my side and stay away from the ring that dangles between my breasts under my clothes.

The guards disappear through a gate into the courtyard in front of the palace. A high wall is circling the building and the gardens. City palaces, always in danger. The wooden workshops of the craftsmen, the stables of the inns, they are all creeping too close and fires spread easily.

I have little memory of this palace, even though I have been here before. I remember my Uncle to be nice enough. Deferring to my brother, his crown-prince and future sovereign, was hard for him, though.

The iron taste of my brother's blood and my own bile choking me. Thoughts of his death are closer to me than thoughts of my brother when he was alive.

"Got a copper to spare, miss?" A ragged child holds out his hand to me. "It's a grand old palace, it is."

"It sure is."

"You been staring at it long enough. Haven't been to the city before, have ya? Came for the executions? Boo!"

He tries to make a scary face which makes me laugh. I dig in the pouch that hangs from my belt. "Here, it ain't no copper, but it's good enough."

It's a piece of hard flat bread, baked the other day with the rest of the peddler's flour.

"Thank you, miss", he says and pockets the bread.

"You ain't hungry?"

"I'm always hungry. But I got a family to care for."

"Good thing you do." It isn't just the Travelers who look out for each other. I can't forget that. "So, what's the news?"

"Execution's at lunchtime tomorrow. They're keeping them in the deepest, darkest dungeon under the palace. Says they are the most dangerous criminals in all the kingdom. They murdered a dozen royalty and burned their cities!"

He's getting excited by his own story and emphasizes it with grand gestures.

"A dozen cities, huh? How'd they catch them?"

"It's the tragedy of all folks! Their own family betrayed 'em! Because they're too hideous and they were scared of 'em. So they clobbered 'em over the head when they slept and gave 'em to the soldiers. Course it didn't help 'em much."

"Help them much?"

"They burned our cities! So the soldiers burned 'em right back."

"I see."

"Not these two, though. The monster and its master."

"What?"

"That's what they call 'em, the soldiers. The monster and its master. Because the one is huge and so ugly that he always has to wear a mask and he never speaks. It's the other one, short chap, but huge girth, he's the one tells the monster what to do."

"How do you know all of this? I've heard there are five prisoners."

"Ya heard wrong, miss. Cause I saw 'em with my own two eyes. And it's just 'em two prisoners and they look exactly like I told ya."

I tell them what I have learned when I come back.

I can't hide my feeling of impending doom from Deadman, but the peddler just shrugs: "Two prisoners, five prisoners, where is the difference? As long as business is good."

And business has been good for him today, so he is jovial and gracious with his food and drink: "Come on, I know you don't like me, but drink with me!" he says and offers Deadman the grain spirit he bought.

Deadman takes the booze but he doesn't touch it, just gives it on to me. I take a tiny sip and it immediately makes me cough.

The peddler laughs: "Isn't made for delicate women, that stuff."

I hand it back to him while the booze is still burning down my throat. "Agreed."

The peddler takes another long sip. "Ah, that's better. So, tell me, how did a delicate woman like you end up with a brute like him?"

"How did you get yourself taboo'd?" I answer.

The peddler chokes and spits booze everywhere. Deadman chuckles: "Serves you right for not minding your own business, peddler."

The coughing fit subsides and the peddler refills what he has lost in booze. His jovial mood is gone, though. "Not like I care anyway. No wench is worth getting yourself all knotted up about her."

"You're going to regret calling her wench." Deadman's voice stays even but it has a sharp edge.

"Whatcha gonna do, beat me up?" the peddler's speech is already slightly slurred.

"I don't make a habit out of beating up my employers. Not unless you're dumb enough to touch her, that is. No, you're going to regret it without my help." Deadman shakes his head and goes back to scanning the surroundings.

The peddler just grumbles something inaudible. Curse words, most likely.

I shake my head at Deadman's antics. Of course the peddler would regret the word, in case he ever found out who I am. But I'm not planning on telling him "You expect any trouble?" I ask Deadman instead.

"He might give us trouble," he nods at the peddler. "As for everyone else, we made sure they know this wagon is guarded."

"I'm right here! Don't talk like I'm not here! Not you, you have no right!" Seriously slurred now but making up for it in volume.

"Keep your voice down, peddler!" Deadman hisses at him.

"You telling me what to do now? I'm paying you, you bastard, I can goddamn say what I want, you filthy clanless coward who doesn't deserve..."

Deadman grabs him by the collar and interrupts the rant: "Shut up, you idiot."

"Cannot take the truth, huh?" But he struggles in vain against the grip and there is less force behind the words.

"You can call me all the names you want when we're alone in a forest. Not here. Not now. Unless you want to get lynched."

Indeed the argument has already drawn some stares from passersby.

"Oh", the peddler's face falls and Deadman lets go of him.

"Idiot", he mutters and turns back to the street. He places his hand on his sword, drawing it just enough that a finger-length of polished steel catches the light of the fires and shines in the night.

Hurriedly, the few people who stopped to see the show move on.

The peddler gulps down some more of his booze and then keeps methodically emptying his bottle for the next hour, staring sullen holes in the air, before he finally succumbs to the alcohol, falls over and starts snoring.

I move around him so that I can sit next to Deadman.

"You should catch some sleep. It's reasonably safe in the wagon", he says.

I shake my head no. "Can't you feel it?" I ask him quietly. There is something in the air."

"The peddler's foul breath?"

That makes me laugh but it doesn't do anything to ease my fears.

"Yes, I can feel it", he finally says. "Something is wrong about this."


End file.
